


Destiny Doesn't Send Heralds

by Erandir



Series: Nobody's Herald [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, M/M, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-03-06 06:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 122,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erandir/pseuds/Erandir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that” ¬ Oscar Wilde</p><p>He was not sent by any god, human or elvhen. He firmly believed that this thing on his hand was merely a coincidence, an accident. It terrified him, he wished he could give it to someone else, but he would use it if he had to, if it would fix the world.</p><p>Someone had to do something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conclave

Aldaron had no idea what was happening. His hand felt like it was on fire. Green fire. Like the skin and bone were being torn apart from the inside. And worse every time that horrendous hole in the sky pulsated and sent down matching green fire from within. Desperately he tried to remember what had happened, but there was nothing. The last thing he remembered was sneaking into the temple where the mages and templars were supposed to be meeting, finding a spot to listen in without being seen. Then he woke up, manacled and chained and this thing in his hand and it hurt and surrounded by humans with swords all pointed straight at him. Then they took him outside and he saw the sky. The hole in the sky. They thought he had done this. How could he have done this? How could anyone have done this? What was that thing? What was he supposed to do?

He followed the shemlen woman blindly, certain that she would not hesitate to kill him if he so much as breathed wrong. But his hand hurt so much it sent him to his knees in the snow. She hauled him to his feet and dragged him forward, stumbling and biting back tears. 

That thing in the sky. They thought he could fix it. How? He was not even a mage. He was just a hunter. Barely a hunter. Cheeks still sore from the fresh vallaslin when he left the Free Marches. 

Demons. There were demons. Actual demons. He had no bow, he had no knives. He had nothing but his bare hands and one is barely useable.

Creators, please say this is all a dream. A terrible nightmare, but he will wake up back in his aravel with his clan. Anywhere but here; this frozen, desolate mountaintop surrounded by shemlen and demons, the sky torn open above him. 

This is it. He’s going to die.

No.

No, not like this.

Frantic. Something, anything. He would take a greatsword right now, probably couldn’t lift it, but at least he would go out fighting. There, an overturned cart. They’re not hunting knives but they’re something. He scrambled toward them, his hand hurt so much he could barely keep his hold, but he thrust both blades out toward the demon blindly, felt them sink into flesh that wasn’t flesh, it screamed and then collapsed and vanished into smoke. 

He’s trembling all over when the woman comes barreling toward him and it’s all he can do to try and keep his voice from letting on how terrified he actually is. Don’t make him face down demons unarmed. 

But fighting is something he knows, and having the knives brought him a small measure of comfort. Familiarity amongst all this chaos and confusion. He was still terrified, still confused, but now at least he had a chance of not dying a horrible gruesome death. A small chance, but still a chance.

A hole in the sky. Holes in the very air. What is that thing? It made his hand hurt even more. When the flat-ear mage grabbed his wrist and thrust it toward the tear every instinct in his body screamed not to, and he tried to pull back but the mage is surprisingly strong and holds him firm. Then pain like nothing he has ever known. His hand is being torn apart. Stop, please make it stop. 

When it does the hole is gone, but his hand is still throbbing with lingering pain. 

“I did that?” How? The mage – Solas – explains, but Aldaron does not understand. Magic had never made any sense to him. But maybe they were right about him fixing the hole in the sky. If it is possible, he wants to. And he also does not want to, because he is terrified and in pain. But what else is there? They won’t let him run away. 

More shemlen, more talking. Finally he understands what happened, and maybe he remembers some of it now. A explosion, that’s right. He remembers running from monsters, demons, there was a woman. And then he woke up in the manacles and now he is here. They want him to close the hole in the sky with this thing in his hand, but they can’t decide how.

“You wanted to kill me a minute ago, now you’re asking for my opinion?” Was this some kind of joke? 

“You’re the one we need to keep alive.”

Alright, that made sense, but it was still a surprise. “The mountain pass,” he said, because he was a coward and if there was a human army somewhere he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. 

There were more demons and more holes in the air. This thing on his hand closes them, but Creators it hurts so much he can barely keep his feet.

The temple was another thing entirely. Aldaron’s first glimpse stopped him dead in his tracks. This was like nothing he had ever seen before. The ground was charred black, corpses frozen in the agony of their death. He swallowed hard to keep down the nausea. What had happened here? What could do something like this? As they continue onward he heard voices. His voice. But he could not remember this, and how was it possible anyway? 

The breach was larger than any of the smaller rifts they had seen on the way here. It was massive, and the demons that came out of it were equally massive. Aldaron held his hand up toward it, staggered from the pain, dodged a demon that tried to cut him in half and tried again. He had to do this, he was the only one who could. But it hurt it hurt it hurt. Someone was screaming. Was that him? 

Everything was searing pain and blinding green light. 

Then everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future chapters will be longer, this one cut off for dramatic effect!
> 
> I don't know where this is going or how often it will be updated or what even is happening with the writing style. Enjoy.
> 
> [Aldaron Lavellan's dumb face in case you care](http://i62.tinypic.com/r7obib.jpg)


	2. Herald

  
When Aldaron next woke it was somewhere warm, comfortable. At first he almost believed that it had all been a dream, but when he opened his eyes he was not back in his aravel with his clan, but an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place. He sat up slowly, just as a strange elf came in the door. When she saw that he was awake the girl dropped what she was holding and practically fell to he knees. It startled Aldaron, and he tried to assure her that she was in no danger, but she seemed frightened of him, babbling endlessly, though he was able to get some information out of her. The breach closed. The thing on his hand did not hurt as much, now that he thought about it. Something, at least, had gone right. But she said that was three days ago. Had he really been asleep that long? The anxious girl fled the room, saying something about Cassandra – the frightening woman who had dragged him up the mountain – and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He remembered Haven from before the conclave, and thought he knew where the Chantry was. Better go find that woman before she came in here to yell at him some more.

 After a cursory look around the room Aldaron located his coat and pulled it on. He opened the door to the shack and stepped outside, then froze on the spot. There were people. Dozens of people, all crowded around as though waiting for him. A line of guards held them back, but did not make Aldaron feel any more comfortable.

 Warily he stepped forward, eyed both the guards and the common folk nervously, and slowly made his way through the crowd. The people were muttering amongst themselves. He could make out the words, but little of it made any sense to him. “Herald of Andraste” they said. “Stepped out of the fade” and “Stopped the breach.” It was all very disconcerting, and did not improve when he spotted the Chantry. He had always felt uncomfortable around Chantries and Chantry sisters, always afraid they would try to convert him or get him arrested. None of the women crowded around outside stopped him from going in, however, so he pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit hall.

 It was empty.

 Not a soul in sight, but as he wandered forward and looked around Aldaron began to hear voices. He followed them to a room at the very back of the hall, steeled himself, then pushed open the door.

 “Clap him in irons!”

 Aldaron tensed, ready to run if he had to, but thankfully the guards seemed more inclined to listen to Cassandra than this priest, and she no longer seemed to want to kill him or arrest him. Thank the Creators for small blessings. He listened, nervous, wary, as they argued over what to do with him, and then Cassandra said something that shocked him to his core.

 “Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.”

 The Maker? The shemlen god?

 “You realize I’m an elf. A Dalish elf.” Aldaron had not been sent to the conclave by anyone but his Keeper, but if he had been sent by a god, it certainly would not be a human one. This did not seem to dissuade Cassandra, though. She was convinced, and so was Leliana. Aldaron understood little of the following conversation. A lot about shemlen religion, about the breach, and something called the Inquisition. The elf did not agree with everything they said. He did not care what their religious leaders believed or ordered them to do. But their goals – bring peace, close the breach, find and stop whoever caused it – those he agreed with whole-heartedly.

 This thing on his hand, whatever it was, it seemed to be important. Right now it seemed to be the only thing that closed the rifts. It was his duty to stay, then. The Keeper had sent him only to gather information; she had not foreseen anything of this magnitude. How could she? How could anyone? Demons falling from the sky. However these people wanted to frame it, this was not a problem merely for humans, this was a problem for the whole world. Reality was coming apart at the seams, and if he could do something to help fix it, then Aldaron would.

 He was not sent by any god, human or elvhen. He firmly believed that this thing on his hand was merely a coincidence, an accident. It terrified him, he wished he could give it to someone else, someone like Cassandra or Solas, someone who knew what they were doing, but he would use it if he had to, if it would fix the world.

 Someone had to do something.

 

* * *

  
They were calling him the Herald of Andraste. Aldaron barely knew who Andraste was. It was disconcerting. People bowed when he walked past. They stared with open awe, or open contempt. At least the contempt was something he was used to seeing from humans. A Dalish elf savage, prophet for their human god? Preposterous. If he was supposed to be a prophet Andraste or the Maker or whomever had certainly forgotten to inform him.

Aldaron held no delusions of grandeur. He was well aware that he held no actual control in this Inquisition. They asked his opinion out of formality. He was little more than a symbol, a mascot. They kept him around because of this mark on his hand, the only thing they knew of that could close the rifts in the veil. That was what they needed, not Aldaron himself.

 Still, now that they were no longer trying to kill or arrest him, everyone in Haven was being incredibly polite. They had given him proper weapons and new clothes. The clothes were unfamiliar and strange, but incredibly well made, comfortable, and most importantly sturdy and warm. Aldaron was not overly fond of the boots, but he was also not fond of frostbite, so he put up with them. They were more comfortable than he had expected boots to be.

 When he reluctantly admitted to Josephine that he had heard some disparaging remarks about his ears said behind his back she had immediately assured him that they would be dealt with. That had shocked him. He had never met a human willing to stand up for an elf before. Usually they just turned their head and ignored it when someone said ‘knife-ear’. Fumbling with his words, Aldaron tried to assure her that it was fine, that she did not need to do anything. She insisted until he backed down.

 The Herald of Andraste had to be respected.

 Aldaron did not want to be herald of anything.

 The mark still hurt. A throbbing in the background of everything that he did. When he kept himself busy enough - running around Haven talking to people, trying to help where he could, hunting in the forest just outside the walls - he could ignore it. At night it kept him awake. Curled up in bed, cradling the limb to his chest and biting his lip to keep from crying. When there was nothing else to distract himself with there was only the pain. The mark did not look like much now, a wide scar with a green tinge, and it did not hurt as much as it had that frantic, terrifying day at the temple. It was like a thousand pins stuck in his flesh. The slightest movement made the pain flare up, and nothing made it go away entirely. Herbal salves and potions had no effect. One particularly desperate night he had shoved his entire arm up to the elbow into a drift of snow and kept it there until he could not feel his fingers. The pain of the mark had only dimmed the tiniest bit.

 He needed a constant distraction, so when the heads of the Inquisition told him to go the Hinterlands (really they asked and suggested but how was he supposed to refuse?) he jumped at the opportunity.

 A Dalish elf was more at home in the wilderness than in a human village. It was warmer here, out of the mountains. Aldaron took off his shoes and left them in camp despite the looks of disapproval that Cassandra gave him. He wanted to feel the dirt and the grass between his toes again.

 There was some Chantry mother. That was the official reason they were here. She wanted to meet the famous Herald of Andraste and seemed to be the only Chantry official outside of Haven that did not want him dead. At least she said as much, but she also said he should go meet with the heads of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. That sounded like a horrible idea, and he said as much. But she just smiled sweetly and made her speech about duty and risk and hard decisions.

 Aldaron left feeling nervous about the whole thing, and instead threw himself into the task of helping the refugees. This was familiar. Tromping through the forest, hunting, foraging, fighting. This was what Aldaron knew how to do. He understood the forest and the fighting, he did not understand human politics or human religion or holes in the sky.

 There were holes here, too. Smaller rifts caused by the first breach. Closing them hurt like nothing else. The mark reacted when he drew close to one, bursting to life like it had at the temple. But the rifts closed, so he bore the ache with gritted teeth and did not let anyone see his pain.

 That night while the others slept in their tents he climbed as high as he could in a tree within sight of the fire and the Inquisition scouts on guard. He stared out across the war-ravaged land. The scars where the fighting had been fiercest were obvious. Trees and grass burned out by mage fire, rocks frozen over with ice that would not melt even in the heat of midday sun. And in the distance the breach in the sky. The conclave was supposed to end this, but nothing had changed, instead they only had more problems.

 He stayed up in the tree all night, slept in brief snatches, pressed the palm of his marked hand so hard against the bark he almost drew blood.

 When he finally descended from the tree as the sky started to grow light the camp was still quiet, but much to his surprise Aldaron found Varric sitting by the camp fire, polishing the wood on that strange crossbow of his. The Dwarf waved him over and Aldaron hesitated a moment before going to join him.

 “So, while Cassandra isn’t around to hear, how are you holding up?” Varric asked. “You go from the most wanted man in Thedas to leading the armies of the faithful. Most people would spread that out over more than a day.”

 Aldaron was surprised to find sympathy for his situation from a dwarf. Or from anyone really. No one had given him any time to adjust, and while he did not feel like a leader Aldaron could not deny that people seemed to think he was. “I have no idea what’s happening anymore,” the elf blurted out before he could stop himself. No, he had been so good at pretending that everything was fine.

 “That makes two of us,” Varric replied wryly and set the crossbow aside. “For days we’ve been sitting around watching the breach spit out demons and Maker knows what. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

 “I still can’t believe any of this is happening,” He had already admitted to being clueless, no point in lying about it now. Varric probably would not believe him anyway.

 “If this is just the Maker winding us up, I hope there’s a damn good punch line coming,” the dwarf continued as though Aldaron had not just admitted that he was clueless and confused. “Heroes are everywhere, I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle. You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to know where this is going.”

 If that was supposed to be comforting it was not working. So Varric at least understood what an impossible task was in front of them. But Aldaron had already considered running at the first opportunity. Everyone said he was free to go if he wanted to, but where would he go? Run back to his clan in the Free Marches and try to pretend everything was fine? The breach was probably visible even from there. The Keeper would just send him back again with a speech about duty ringing in his ears. He could practically hear her already. Mythal was watching over you in the temple, Aldaron, her mark is upon your face and upon your hand. You must use this gift to the betterment of the world, as the Creators would want.

 The elf shook his head, dismissing the thought. He certainly had not felt the presence or guidance of any gods so far. Maybe he would be less frightened if he had. She would be right about his duty, however, as everyone else was. He was the only person with the ability to close the rifts and the breach, so he had to do it. The whole world depended on it. Aldaron would not be able to live with himself if he ran away.

 Varric was getting up. “I think I’ll see what the scouts are serving up for breakfast. Let’s hope its more than field rations this time.”

 They spent several more days in the region, attempting to calm the fighting between mages and Templars enough to ensure the safety of the refugees. There were times that Aldaron could amost forget that everyone thought he was some sort of messiah, but then he would crest a hill and see there in the distance the tell-tale greenish glow of yet another rift in the veil and he could no longer ignore the throbbing in his hand or the weight on his shoulders.

 The work was exhausting and endless, but Aldaron succeeded in obtaining a number of small alliances for the inquisition, much to his own surprise. Then again, killing wolves and building watchtowers was hardly politics. If only everything was this simple.

 They left the forests and hills behind and returned to Haven much too soon for his own liking.

 He had much preferred the forests and hills, even if they were crawling with bandits and demons and war. Haven was not without its own small wars. Like the one he found outside the Chantry as soon as they arrived, a crowd gathered and voices raised in anger.

 “I’m curious, Commander, how this Inquisition and your ‘herald’ plan to restore order as you have promised.” It was the priest who had demanded his arrest from the start (What was his name again? It didn’t matter). Aldaron was not surprised to see him starting up a fuss again. “We need a proper authority.”

 “Who? Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the conclave?” Cullen replied. Aldaron wasn’t sure how he felt about any of the people around here, but he respected Cullen’s skills, and the man seemed sensible enough.

 “This rebel Inqusition and its ‘Herald of Andraste’?” The cleric shot back, and almost scoffed. “I think not.”

 “I don’t believe I’m Andraste’s herald any more than you do,” Aldaron interjected.

 “The Inquisition only claims that we must close the breach or perish,” Cullen added, though remained noticeably silent on the religious subject.

 “You say that now, Commander, but we will see if the sentiment remains true.”

 The breach was the only thing that mattered, but their fledgling Inquisition seemed to be the only people who cared at all. Everyone was too caught up in their petty squabbles to bother looking up and seeing the real threat. And apparently it was his job now to make everyone calm down so they could work together.

 Aldaron had seen in the Hinterlands how bad the fighting was between mages and templars, and he knew what it had done back in the Free Marches before he had left. Stopping the war would be no easy task, but standing around here arguing about who was in charge was not going to help things in the slightest. Maybe everyone was right; the Inquisition could not do this alone. They would need the support of others, and that was why Mother Giselle had told him to go to Val Royeaux. To get that support.

 Human politics were too complicated. Why couldn’t people just see that there was a problem and work together to fix it? Why did they have to spend so much time arguing about who was right and who was in charge? What did it matter? There was a hole in the sky with demons pouring out of it. In Aldaron’s perspective that was somewhat more important than putting a woman in a throne.

 Trussed up in clothing befitting his station Aldaron went to Val Royeaux and he pretended to be confident and self-assured in front of a crowd that would happily see him dead. The city was unlike anything he had ever seen before, but the glamour of it was overshadowed by the butterflies in his stomach and the bad taste in his mouth and the hammering of his heart. No one was allowed to see that he was nervous, however. He was the Herald of Andraste, they kept insisting despite his protestations, and he had to be confidence personified.

 There among the gilded marble and silken finery he saw first hand the selfishness of human politics. If this was how templars behaved then he wanted nothing to do with them or their Chantry. That made it easy to accept the invitation to go speak with the rebelling mages. At least they were civil.

 Though Aldaron would have been happy to leave the city right then and there, the others insisted they stay and look into other matters. One scavenger hunt later Aldaron met the strangest elf he had ever known or probably ever would. (He did appreciate the breeches thing, though, and at another time in his life probably would have laughed uproariously at it. But there did not seem much point in laughter these days.) The following evening Cassandra forced him back into the uncomfortable formalwear and then utterly abandoned him at the mansion of some Orlesian politician. Alone in a room full of spoiled, pompous shemlen nobles he could only smile tightly and try to keep from bolting like a startled deer.

 Everything that had happened from the conclave until now felt like it passed in a daze. A confusing swirl of new faces and new words and impossible things come to life. Aldaron walked through it all like a person he did not know. A mask of understanding when the shemlen talk about their Maker and their Chantry. A mask of confidence when he says he will do whatever he can to help, that he will close the breach, he will bring peace. A mask of calm as he faces down those who would see their Inquisition disbanded and destroyed. He is learning how to be the symbol they all want him to be, but he is crumbling on the inside. Because he can scream and protest all he wants that no Maker sent him, they will not listen, so why bother anymore?

 Everything he has been since obtaining this mark on his hand is a lie. A façade. They all expect so much of him and he is terrified to let them down. They expect guidance, wisdom, protection. Is he really the only thing holding these people together?

 Yes, he is. The answer is clear. So he builds up the mask carefully. The mask of Herald. And he puts it on each morning afraid that someday he will not be able to take it off.

 No one sees through the mask. No one sees that he is no more than a confused and frightened child. His cheeks were still sore when he left his clan, but his hand hurts a hundred times more than the needle ever did. No one imagines that he has no idea what is going on around him.

 No one except him.

 “Fascinating. How does that work, exactly? You have no idea, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and poof! rift closed.” The man laughed when he said it, like it was a joke. But he looked at Aldaron with a knowing smile and the mask faltered.

 Right from the start Dorian had been able to see right through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting to the interesting bit.   
> Still don't know where I'm going with this fic, though. It'll be an adventure for everyone involved, I'm sure.


	3. Dorian

So this was the infamous Herald of Andraste. He was not exactly what Dorian had been expecting. An elf, yes. That was the first thing all the rumors said. To think the Maker would send a wild Dalish elf to do his work; scandalous. Ears and strange tattoos aside, though, Dorian had still expected someone… older? Taller? More imposing? More confident to be sure. The Herald looked like a skittish animal, all wild yellow hair and black eyes and nervous fidgeting. Was this really the one who had stilled the breach in the sky? If Dorian had not just seen him seal the rift here with his own eyes he would not have believed it. It did beg the question, though: how much political power did the Herald of Andraste actually have? Did the elf do anything but show up, look pretty, and wave his hand at rifts? 

Not that he wasn’t good at the whole rift thing. Fascinating ability, that. He was good at killing demons, too. Dorian had seen him with those knives, fearless and brutal, a completely different person from the uncertain man who had spoken to him after the battle.

Dorian pondered this curious dichotomy while he followed the Herald his band of misfits back to Haven. (Sweet Maker but it was cold. People actually lived here by choice?) The Herald was quiet the whole trip, spoke very little to any of his companions and kept mostly to himself. Maybe he was just uncomfortable around humans (and the dwarf), which was not terribly unusual for an elf.

 Yes, that must be all it was. Just xenophobia. Completely understandable. Dorian did not think about it again until they were back at Redcliff castle days later and everything went terribly, impossibly wrong.

 Wrong from one perspective at least. To think that Alexius had actually made their theory work. Astounding. They had actually traveled through time! He had to get his hands on those notes. But now was not the time to admire that. The Herald looked confused. Of course, he could not expect a non-mage to understand such complex magic. Maybe he was talking too fast.

 “Is that even possible?” the elf had asked. A week ago Dorian would have laughed and called it impossible as well, but here they were.

Dorian looked to the elf and saw something that made him pause. The Herald was frightened. He was trying very hard to hide it, and doing a passable job, but there was a light in his eyes that belayed the calm expression on his face. The great Herald of Andraste, supposed savior of the world, was terrified.

“Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you,” Dorian blurted out.

* * *

_I’ll protect you_ .

Someone else might be offended at the notion of needing protection, but Aldaron just felt… relieved. This situation was beyond his ability to comprehend or to deal with on his own. You cannot stab a magic spell and the mark on his hand only seems to do one thing: close rifts. And really, he wanted someone to look out for him for a change, instead of expecting him to solve all their problems.

Dorian might be all talk as far as he knew, but well so was Aldaron. Besides, there was really no other choice but to trust the mage. It was that or resign himself to being stuck here. Wherever here was. Whenever, if Dorian was right about Alexius’ spell.

Aldaron still could not wrap his mind around the idea that someone would alter time just to be rid of him. No, maybe that he could understand considering how important everyone thought he was. What confounded him was that it was actually possible. Time travel.

And Alexius knew what this thing on his hand was. It had to be some sort of magic, then. A tool made by this Elder One he had mentioned. If only Aldaron had been able to get him to talk more. Maybe he could have finally understood what was going on. Or maybe he would have just been more confused.

It was all too much to take in. His mind was reeling and he could barely focus. Why did everything have to be so complicated and… magical?  Thank goodness Dorian was here so at least one of them knew what was happening. Aldaron would just try not to appear too stupid and useless in front of him.

First they had to get out of these dungeons, though. Figure out where - and when - they were. The tight quarters were starting to make him feel claustrophobic, and the red lyrium growing out of the walls made him nervous.

Aldaron moved frantically through the halls, Dorian silent on his heels as they passed empty cells and increasing amounts of red lyrium. He had no idea where to go, but doubted his companion had any better ideas. Upward upward, follow any flight of stairs you find and eventually you’ll be out. That plan worked for a while, until the obvious way forward was barred. Aldaron did not pause long enough to think about it. If he did, he might start to panic. There had to be another way, so he turned instinctively down one of the other passages.

He wished he hadn’t.

They found Cassandra and Varric first. How long had they been down here? And what had been done to them? With horror Aldaron realized that the red glow on both of their faces was not from the torches or the red lyrium on the walls, in was coming from within. Further down the hall they found Grand Enchanter Fiona. Or what was left of her. Aldaron felt sick. How was she still conscious when she was more lyrium than person? What sort of person let this happen? Or subjected someone to this torture? He swallowed heavily to keep from vomiting. The poor woman did confirm Dorian’s suspicions, though. They were a full year in the future. It seemed impossible, but it was not the first impossible thing that had happened to him. Varric was right, everything that happened to him was weird.

Weird and terrible.

This place was like a nightmare and it only kept getting worse the closer they came to their goal. It was like that horrible day on the mountaintop again, when the sky had exploded and left its mark on him. He moved with a single-minded focus, because if he stopped to think about it the sheer hopelessness of their situation would overwhelm him. The mark hurt like it had not since that day. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Just keep moving forward, find Alexius, reverse the spell, stop this from happening. Everyone was dead or dying, Fiona practically a part of the walls, Varric and Cassandra half-mad from the red lyrium, Leliana tortured and he did not want to think what else they had done to her. What about everyone else? What about Haven? And Creators, the sky.

There was no sky. Only the breach.

He could feel the mask slipping, cracking. He was losing his grip on that carefully constructed façade in the face of all this madness. He tore through the castle blindly, trusted Dorian’s words to the letter though he had no reason to. No reason except that Dorian said he could fix this and it was the only option available. He dared no think what would happen if Dorian was wrong.

Varric, Cassandra, Leliana, his friends. (When had he started considering them friends?) Was this the future they all had to look forward to? Aldaron found it hard to believe that his presence was the only thing keeping the world from ending. He was only one person. Even with this thing on his hand, what was he supposed to do?

If not for Dorian, Alexius would have succeeded. Thrown into the future all on his own, Aldaron would never have made it back. He was no mage; he did not understand anything about magic. He would have been stuck here in this nightmare, this future that was beyond redemption.

He watched them die and the mask shattered entirely. He cried out, tried to go to them to protect them and only Dorian’s hand on his arm and the sensible words in his ears held him back. There was nothing he could do to help except go back and make sure that none of this happened in the first place. Then they were thrown through time again. It left Aldaron staggered and reeling and confused, no less so than the first time. Looking around, he found they were still in the throne room but everything was changed, back to the way it had been before. The way it should be. And there was Alexius. Aldaron tensed and reached for his daggers, expecting another fight, but it did not come.

The magister surrendered without a fight, all the fire gone out of him in an instant. Aldaron was actually relieved, because he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Can they go back to Haven now and sleep for a week?

No such luck.

Human royalty. Aldaron scrabbled to school his expression, to put the mask back together and present the confident and reasonable Herald he knew they expected.

It felt like everyone was looking at him.

Everyone was looking at him. They wanted him to… Oh, good. He looked between the king, the Grand Enchanter, and Cassandra, but none of them gave him any indication of what he should do. They were really letting him make this decision on his own?  Why? He was not remotely prepared for this.

They had come here to get the help of the mages, however. So the answer seemed simple enough, really. “We would be honored to have the mages fight at the Inquisition’s side.” His voice sounded much more confident than he felt, and not nearly as exhausted. The mask was firmly in place again. Creators willing, it would remain that way.

* * *

When they arrived back in Haven, however, it was clear that not everyone was happy with his decision. Word had already reached the village, but none of the sentiment reached Aldaron’s ears until they were in the chantry. Cullen was furious, Josephine was none too happy, either, and Cassandra and Leliana were impossible for him to read. He had clearly done the wrong thing, so why hadn’t anyone stopped him? Cassandra was there. Cullen was right, she should have intervened. He wasn’t fit for making these kinds of decisions. And now everyone was angry and it was his fault.

It was a struggle to keep his expression neutral while his thoughts spiraled into despair. Why had anyone thought it was a good idea to put him in charge of anything? He was pulled out of those thoughts when Dorian interrupted the circular arguments and announced his intention to stay. Aldaron stared openly. Even after everything, he had expected Dorian to leave when it was all done, so he was surprised, but pleasantly so.

“You’re staying?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Dorian asked, smirking as he met Aldaron’s eyes, and it was hard for the elf to keep from smiling in return. Surprising, he had not felt the urge to smile in weeks. “The south is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces.”

Aldaron felt so relieved he barely registered the rest of the man’s words. The whole time in that horrible future Dorian’s presence and his unfailing confidence had been the one thing holding Aldaron together, keeping him focused and preventing him from spiraling into hopeless terror. He needed that.

“There’s no one I would rather be stranded in time with, future or present.” The words were out of Aldaron’s mouth before he even realized he was speaking them. For a moment he was horrified, embarrassed, then Dorian laughed.

“Well, let’s try not to get stranded again anytime soon.”

* * *

Aldaron could not sleep. This was becoming normal. When the pain from his marked hand kept him awake he was in the habit of wandering the cold empty paths outside Haven’s walls. It was well past midnight, not a sole was awake save the guards on the walls, and they paid him little mind. Tonight it was more than just the pain keeping him awake. Aldaron was exhausted and exhaustion was usually enough to help him pass out for a few hours, but every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed what he had seen in Redcliff. That other Redcliff. He wondered if he would have nightmares about it forever.

He stopped at the stables and leaned against the fence, looking in on the horse that Dennet had given him. It was dozing in the way that horses do, and opened its eyes briefly when he walked up, snorted at him, then closed its eyes again. Aldaron held his hand out, murmuring softly in elven as he stroked the animal’s soft nose.

“Can’t sleep?”

Aldaron startled so bad he jumped and spun around. How had he not heard someone come up behind him? But it was only Dorian, standing a few paces away looking as startled as Aldaron felt and holding his hands up placatingly. “I come in peace.”

Aldaron relaxed, but felt suddenly foolish. “Sorry,” he replied, reigning his emotions in again. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“No harm done,” Dorian assured, and lowered his arms to wrap them around himself against the cold. “I’m apparently more stealthy than I realized. I’ll try to be more obvious next time.”

Next time? Aldaron was not sure he wanted there to be a next time. He was not sure he wanted there to be this time. The whole point of coming out to the stables in the middle of the night was to be alone. He was glad that Dorian had decided to stay with the Inquisition, but that did not mean he wanted the mage to be with him all the time. Dorian had seen though his mask once, but he was not ready to take it off entirely, not willingly.

“What are you doing out here?” the Herald asked.

“You may not have noticed, but it is absolutely frigid here,” Dorian said, and sighed dramatically, “And that… cabin” he said the word like he wasn’t sure it was the correct one, “they’ve given me is draftier than a barn.”

That did not answer the question. “You thought the actual barn might be warmer?” Aldaron asked, perplexed.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. “Hardly,” he replied, “Though I would not be surprised. No, I stepped out for more firewood and what should I see but the Herald of Andraste wandering the village like a lonely ghost. I thought to myself: what in the world is he doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? And now here I am, asking you what in the world are you doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? Not collecting firewood, I gather.”

“No,” Aldaron replied, and turned his gaze back to the dozing horse. Had Dorian really followed him all the way out here just to ask why he couldn’t sleep? Why? The man was obviously freezing. And what did he care if Aldaron wasn’t sleeping? No one else did.

If Dorian was expecting more of an explanation he was disappointed. The silence between them stretched on and on. Speachless. Aldaron had not thought it was possible to render Dorian speechless.

He heard the crunch of snow behind him, then Dorian was standing at the fence beside him and staring at the dozing horse, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He had to be absolutely miserable out here, what was he doing? “So, does the Herald of Andraste suffer from insomnia? Or is there something else that has driven you out into this Maker-forsaken cold?”

Dorian might be far more perceptive than he let on, Aldaron realized. He glanced down at his marked hand, gripping tightly to the fence to keep from shaking. No one was allowed to see such weakness. But he was beginning to realize that Dorian would not leave until he got an answer. The man had offered an easy out. Insomnia. No one here had known him before, they had no reason to think it was a lie. Part of him wanted to tell the truth, though.

“I can’t stop thinking about what we saw in Redcliff,” Aldaron said. It was only half the truth.

“Ah,” Dorian nodded sagely. “It was… quite memorable, I’ll grant you that.”

That was putting it mildly. Everything they had seen, that possible future, he could not allow that to happen. Seeing what would happen if they failed, however, only made the task ahead that much more daunting. “I can’t let that happen,” the Herald said quietly. “It’s so much more than just a hole in the sky now. This… Elder One… I have to stop him.”

“I agree,” Dorian replied. “I don’t envy your position, Herald, but you are not alone. The people here seem very capable. And of course you have me now,” he added with a grin, “This improves your odds immeasurably.”

He had known Dorian for less than a week, so why did he trust this man? There was no reason to. No rational explanation as to why Dorian’s presence made it so easy for him to relax, why a simple smile from the man made him feel like maybe this was all going to work out after all.

_I’ll protect you._

The man probably hadn’t even meant it when he said that. A joke to cut the tension, to ease his fears, to earn his trust. But Aldaron wanted so badly for it to be true. There was so much that depended on him, was it too much to ask for just one person to have his back?

“Can I tell you a secret?” Aldaron asked.

“You can,” Dorian replied. “It might not be a very good idea, but I certainly won’t stop you.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Aldaron blurted, then let out a bitter laugh. It actually felt good to say it out loud, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He needed to say it out loud. The words came suddenly in a rush, and he was unable to hold them back even if he had wanted to. “I’m making it all up as I go along and pretending, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even understand what’s happening most of the time. And no one cares at all! They don’t care about me. They don’t need me. They only need this thing on my hand. They wouldn’t care about me at all if I didn’t have it.

“They want me to be some savior, but I don’t actually matter at all, just this thing. This damn mark. I don’t even want it!” His throat was tightening; he had to stop now before he broke down crying in front of this man. What would Dorian think of him then? What must he think of him already? Now that he knew the Herald of Andraste was just an ignorant knife-ear. Aldaron forced his mouth shut, bottled up his emotions again and squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the laughter and was bound to come from the man sitting beside him.

The laughter did not come.

“Well, if you’ve got that all out, shall I tell you a secret as well?” Dorian asked. His voice remained as light and carefree as it had ever been, as though he had not just listened to Aldaron pour his heart out. Slowly, hesitantly, Aldaron opened his eyes again and raised them to look over at the mage. “Neither does anyone else.”

Aldaron stared at him as though he had grown a second head. That probably would have been less shocking, actually.

“Look around,” Dorian gestured blindly to the camp, silent though it was this late at night, and to the breach in the distant sky. “Do you think anyone really understands what’s happening? Even that Solas fellow probably doesn’t know half as much as he thinks he does. In fact, probably less than half, he seems to think he knows everything about everything.”

That couldn’t be right. Everyone else seemed so confident and sure of themselves when they made plans and discussed politics. They all spoke with such authority. Then again, hadn’t he been doing the same thing? Hiding behind his mask, the persona of the Herald that he had built up, and pretending to be brave and wise.

“You think so?” Aldaron asked, and hated how his voice betrayed his emotions so easily. He sounded like a frightened child. He was a frightened child.

“What? Do I think Solas is full of shit?” Dorian asked, purposely misconstruing the question and smiling to himself. “Don’t get me wrong, he is a very talented mage, for an apostate, but honestly. You don’t find him the least bit… pretentious?”

“No moreso than you,” Aldaron replied dryly.

“Was that a joke?” Dorian let out a bark of laughter and grinned. “The Herald of Andraste has a sense of humor after all. Alert the Chantry! I’m certain they will revoke your title immediately.”

If only. “I think they would have already if they could,” the elf replied, and felt the faintest of smiles tug at the corner of his mouth, barely a twitch of the muscles, but it was more than he had smiled since the conclave.

“Ah, I suppose you’re stuck with it, then,” Dorian replied, and shrugged.

Aldaron supposed he was. He stared into Dorian’s face searchingly. Looking for… something. He did not know. Some reason why this man could read him so easily. Whatever he was looking for he did not see it then. “We are heading to the Storm Coast tomorrow,” he said, “To meet a mercenary company. Something to do while we wait for everything to be sorted with the mages.” He hesitated a moment before continuing, “You are welcome to come, if you would like.”

Dorian nodded slowly and hummed thoughtfully. “As tempting as the offer is, the sea and I are currently not on speaking terms, so I will have to decline the offer. Perhaps next time.”

A mix of emotions swirled through Aldaron’s chest. Disappointment, relief, resignation. He did not understand any of them. “Next time, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the fastest I've ever updated anything in my life.


	4. Haven

The Storm Coast was miserable. Dorian was lucky not to be there. It rained constantly but somehow there was still salt crusted on everything he owned. The wind made his ears ache and for once he was actually happy to wear shoes because everything was gravel and mud and incredibly unpleasant. But they had hired an eclectic band of mercenaries that Aldaron was not sure what to make of yet, and found several signs that the missing Grey Wardens had been in the area. Blackwall had been excited about that. At least someone was happy.

 Aldaron was happy to get back to Haven. It was actually starting to feel like home. Or more like home than anything away from his clan ever had before. Comfort and familiarity. It also had a change of clothes and the opportunity to wash the salt out of his hair and out of his ears. He did that before going to the chantry to find out what he’d missed while away.

 “The last of the mages from Redcliff arrived the day before yesterday,” Cullen reported. “They are ready to assault the Breach on your order.”

 On his order. What a daunting notion, but for once Aldaron thought they meant it. He was the one that could close it, after all. They couldn’t do anything without him. Or without his hand, at least.

 “Then let’s get it over with,” the Herald said, looking up from the map on the table. “Tomorrow. Can everything be prepared by then?” It was already late in the afternoon, and Aldaron had no idea what sort of preparations the others needed to make. He assumed a plan had been made and the mages and soldiers briefed on it. Presumably all Aldaron had to do was show up and stick his hand out. Wiggle his fingers, as Dorian had so aptly put it.

 “Are you certain you’re ready?” Cullen asked. Was that actual concern in his voice? “We cannot know how you will be affected.”

 Sitting around here any longer would not change that. The whole point of this Inquisition was to close the hole in the sky. Ready or not, Aldaron wanted it done. Maybe then this whole mess would be cleared up and he could go home. He really wanted to go home. He wanted things to be simple again. “I’m certain,” the Herald assured him.

* * *

The Breach looked the same as he remembered, though there were no demons falling out of it this time, so that was an improvement. The mark on his hand throbbed and burned, bursting to light as he drew near. The same reaction it had to the smaller rifts, but magnified, intensified, by the size of the Breach. He was almost getting used to it; a frightening thought.

 Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of Solas giving some kind of speech, last minute advice to the mages that had come to help. He was not listening, would not understand anyway. Magic. What was he doing here when a dozen people more suited than him had been at the conclave? The gods had a sick sense of humor, if this was indeed their doing.

 He stared up into the Breach, felt his hand throb in reaction to its presence, or perhaps in anticipation.

 Now or never.

 I hope this works.

 He stepped forward and held up his arm. Immediately the mark burst to life, pulling on the Breach, drawing it in, sealing it. The pain coursed up his entire arm. He grit his teeth to keep from crying out, clenched his other hand into a fist and willed himself to stand firm until it was done. The explosion of magic, or whatever rifts were made of, when the tear finally sealed knocked him off his feet, he fell to hands and knees, gasping and trembling and trying to pull himself together. His arm was on fire.

 He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked over to see Cassandra’s face. “You did it,” she said, something akin to awe in her voice.

 So he had.

 The sky was clear. No more green light anywhere to be seen, although the clouds swirled in an echo of what had been there moments before. His hand still hurt, but mostly from the aftershock of using the mark to such an extent. If he focused on it, no easy task, the mark itself was not nearly as painful as before. But it was still there.

 Aldaron staggered to his feet and stared up at the sky.

 He did it.

 They did it.

* * *

Celebrations were already starting by the time they returned to Haven. No doubt the people here had been watching the sky anxiously and knew the moment the Breach had been sealed. The throbbing in Aldaron’s arm had faded on the walk down the mountain, and he was shocked to find that he could barely feel the mark on his hand at all. It was still there, of course, a faint ache like an old bruise or an overworked muscle, but after weeks of the stabbing pain that kept him up nights it was as good as numb. And a welcome relief.

 When they saw him the people cheered. They shouted congratulations and thanks and praise to both him and the god he did not believe in. Aldaron tried to smile, but he worried it looked as forced as it felt.

 Thankfully the revelers left him alone after their initial cheers, which Aldaron was grateful for. It made him uncomfortable still, all the praise and the bowing and the talk of Andraste and the Maker. He still felt like an outsider here, though admittedly he had made little effort to do otherwise. He kept to himself, spoke to few people other than the heads of the Inquisition and those he had recruited personally. Everyone else treated him too much like the prophet they believed he was and it was unnerving. It was no surprise, though, that he did not have anyone to celebrate with and found himself watching the revelry from the sidelines, too uncomfortable to even consider joining in.

 That was where Cassandra found him, watching from the sidelines. He was not surprised that she was not joining in the festivities, she did not seem like the celebratory type. “Solas confirms that the heavens are scarred, but calm. The Breach is sealed.” she reported, coming to stand beside him. Aldaron nodded absently. He did not need Solas to confirm that for him, the loss of pain in his marked hand had been enough to tell him it worked. “We’ve reports of lingering rifts,” Cassandra continued, “And many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has already spread.”

 Heroism? If standing there and holding his arm up made him a hero then it was shocking that there weren’t more heroes in the world. “Do they know I fell into this? Almost literally?” he asked. And he was still waiting for a sign that a god – any god – had chosen him.

 “Perhaps you are too close to judge,” Cassandra conceded. “We needed you. We still do.”

 Of course. It had been wishful thinking to dream it would be over now. The mark was still on his hand, there were still rifts scattered across the countryside that only the mark could close, and they still did not know what had caused the Breach in the first place. Whatever sort of magic could cause such a thing was incredibly dangerous. If it fell into the wrong hands... Well, it likely already had considering recent events. That sort of power should not belong to anyone. Even this mark was too dangerous if he ever figured out how to control it.

 “We have yet to discover how the Breach came to be,” Cassandra continued after a brief moment. “And that is only the most conspicuous of our troubles.”

 There had to be someone behind this. Holes in the sky do not open by themselves. If the one responsible had survived the conclave, unlikely as that seemed, they had to be found and stopped before they could strike again. Assuming they would strike again and that the destruction of the conclave was not their only goal. But Aldaron had no idea how to go about answering any of their lingering questions. Hopefully Solas would be able to. He seemed the only person who understood anything about the Breach. Perhaps Aldaron should go find him now to discuss it.

 He didn’t even get to finish the thought before it was cut off by the loud clanging of a bell and shouts of alarm. They were under attack. He followed Cassandra to the gates without question, and found Cullen already shouting orders. “It’s a massive force. The bulk over the mountain.”

 “Under what banner?” Josephine was asking.

 “None.”

 Josephine’s shock mirrored Aldaron’s own, but he was less concerned with who was attacking and more concerned with why and how to kill them. And with the knocking at the door. Someone was outside. Cautious of a potential trap, Aldaron strode up to the gate and pushed it open.

 It was a young man, could not have been older than Aldaron himself, obviously agitated. He spoke of templars and the Elder One. What he said made little sense, but Aldaron was only half listening. He was staring up at the mountainside and the figures coming toward them. It did not matter now who was attacking, they had to defend themselves.

 Aldaron was much better at following orders than giving them. And he much preferred throwing himself daggers first at attacking armies than standing back and telling other people to do it. The templars swarmed like so many red ants down the mountainside, across the bridge, across the frozen lake, and up toward the walls. Keep them off the trebuchets. That was the order, and that was what Aldaron would do.

 And he did just that. With the ragtag crew that he had somehow assembled at his side Aldaron kept them off the trebuchets. But you don’t keep a dragon off a trebuchet.

 Aldaron had not been so terrified since his first encounter with a demon. A dragon. How was there a dragon? Why was there a dragon? Demons were one thing, he had almost gotten used to the demons, but this was completely different. For a moment he could do nothing but stare in horror as the creature winged overhead. And then he ran.

 Even Cullen did not know what to do in the face of a dragon.

 Or an archdemon.

 Haven was overrun and surrounded. There was no way out. Was there really no choice but to bury themselves alive and hope to take their enemies with them? That couldn’t be the end. There had to be another way.

 Yes, a passage through the mountains. A way out, they could still survive this.

 Not Aldaron, though. He knew as soon as Roderick mentioned the path. He knew what he had to do. He had to protect them. He closed the Breach. They didn’t need him anymore. They would find some other way to close the remaining rifts. If this Elder One wanted him then it could have him. So long as everyone else survived.

 Protect. That was what he’d been trained to do, raised to do: protect the clan. This was not his clan, but they all looked at him as though he were their Keeper. Aldaron was no keeper, but he could fight, and he would have died in defense of his clan. These people here, they weren’t his clan, his family, but they were something close. They were kind to him. They respected him, looked up to him. For all that he did not deserve it, for all that he was surely a constant let down, they glorified him. It was time he earned that respect.

 “Cullen, get them out safely,” the Herald said, and turned on his heel, heading for the door. His hand was on the wood when a voice stopped him.

 “Leaving without me? I’d hate to miss all the fun.”

 Aldaron looked over his shoulder and there was Dorian, staff in hand and looking a little ragged around the edges. “What?” he asked stupidly.

 “I may have been eavesdropping on your less-than-subtle strategy meeting. You need to be noticed? That’s my specialty,” the man said with a grin that did not befit the situation.

 “And archdemons are sort of a Grey Warden specialty,” Blackwall added, stepping up beside him.

 Aldaron stared between the two men, too stunned for a moment to even begin to protest. And then The Iron Bull strode up, war axe hefted over one shoulder and grinning with a slightly manic glint in his eye, “I hear we’re fighting a dragon. Count me in, boss.”

 “It’s a suicide mission,” Aldaron protested.

 “For one man alone, maybe,” Blackwall said, “You’ll need someone to watch your back while you get the trebuchet in place.”

 That was sound logic and Aldaron could not argue with it. “Alright,” the Herald relented. “But as soon as it’s done you all get out of there, understood?”

 “Crystal clear, boss,” Bull was still grinning and it was a little concerning. “What are we waiting for?”

 Haven was overrun.

 The templars were upon them as soon as they stepped outside the chantry. It was a struggle just to get to the remaining trebuchet, and from there it was a constant effort to keep the templars away long enough to aim the damned thing. Blackwall had been right. With three people at his back Aldaron could barely focus on aiming the trebuchet. He would never have been able to do this by himself. At least their distraction seemed to be working. It felt like the entire force was descending upon them.

 The dragon was back only moments after Aldaron had gotten the weapon into position. Its roar was deafening as it swooped overhead. “Move, now!” the Herald ordered, frantically gesturing for the others to leave. He did not see them get away, the dragon, archdemon, whatever it was, cut him off. It stared him down and he stared back, paralyzed with fear. He was going to get eaten by a dragon before he could launch their final desperate counterattack. There was no way he could get back to the trebuchet faster than that thing could snap him up. But it was not advancing, and soon Aldaron knew why.

 The Elder One.

 What was that thing? It was not human. Darkspawn? But Aldaron had never heard of any darkspawn like this. It spoke. Spoke as though it were human, spoke of the Breach and the mark on his hand. It had caused all this. It had opened the Breach and destroyed the temple.

 The mark on his hand burst to life as though by this creature’s command. No, he was certain it was by this creature’s command. The pain lanced through him, burning, tearing, stabbing, the worst it had ever been. Aldaron staggered, fell to his knees. He could barely hear the creature’s words through the pain, could barely focus on anything else. But he had to know, he had to know why this was happening. What was this thing? Why did he have it? Where did it come from?

 “What is this thing meant to do?” he could barely get the words out.

 “It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

 What did that mean? Aldaron had no time to ask or even to think about it before the creature reached down and grabbed him, it took hold of his marked hand and lifted him bodily off the ground. Aldaron struggled for barely a moment before realizing it was futile. He could not fight this thing. So he listened, he tried to understand so that in the slim chance he managed to survive this he could explain it to someone who would actually understand. What this creature was, what it wanted, what was this mark on his hand? The answers he got only lead to more questions.

 The creature threw him bodily across the ground. Aldaron collided violently with the trebuchet, gasped in pain and struggled to regain his senses once more. He had dropped his knives somewhere in the confusion of templars and dragons and ancient talking darkspawn. But there was a dead templar at his feet and Aldaron grabbed the sword out of its dead hands without even thinking about it and scrambled to his feet. What he was supposed to do with a sword he barely knew how to use against that thing he did not know, but at least he would not go down without a fight.

 That was when he saw, streaking up through the dark sky like a beacon of hope, Cullen’s signal. The people were clear. His job was done. Almost done.

 This was where fairytale heroes always said something profound or witty or brave, but Aldaron had no words. Maybe Varric could think of something to put in the song they wrote about him. Assuming anyone bothered to write a song about him. Instead he just lunged toward the trebuchet and threw his entire weight against the lever, the counterweight fell, the stone flew and Aldaron ran and never looked back.

* * *

Cold. Pain. Those were the first things Aldaron was aware of when he woke. Everything hurt, his ribs most of all, and his hip where it pressed against the cold stone floor. And his head. For a moment he did not know where he was or how he got there, but then he remembered.

 Cracking his eyes open slowly, Aldaron tried to take stock of the situation. All he could see was rocks and snow, the light was dim, coming through a small shaft above him. A cave of some sort? Or a basement? Whatever it was had saved him from the avalanche.

 He tried to sit up. His ribs screamed in protest, he gasped in pain, bit his lip and forced himself to his feet. Once upright he wavered, one hand wrapped around his midsection, the other thrown out to the side for balance. He felt lightheaded, and there was a sharp pain at the side of his head. Carefully he brought a hand up to touch – damn that hurt – and his fingers came back red with blood.

 He couldn’t stay here.

 Blinking and struggling to focus his vision Aldaron glanced around the cavern and then staggered forward. Every step jostled his ribs – definitely broken – but he clenched his jaw against the pain and continued forward. He had no intention of starving or freezing to death under an avalanche. Not before he knew whether that thing was dead or not. Besides, it didn’t hurt any more than the mark – the anchor – did when it glowed.

 He felt and heard the wind before he saw the end of the passage, and it spurred him forward until he staggered out into the snow. The wind was biting, cutting through his coat and straight to the bone. He gasped and shivered, breath fogging before his face. Snow swirled around him, obscuring everything in sight. Where was he? There was no sign of the village left that he could see. It was all buried. Squinting through the fog and the snow Aldaron tried to make out any landmark that would tell him where to head.

 Was that a light somewhere? Yes. In the distance, up the mountain. Please be real. Please don’t be an illusion, a trick of the mind.

 He wrapped both arms around himself against the cold and began making his way toward the distant light, hoping it was anyone but the templars or the Elder One. The going was hard. Each step sunk into the snow up to his knee. The cold bit through him until it was all he could feel. At least he couldn’t feel the pain in his ribs anymore. He also couldn’t feel his fingers, or his ears. He walked for what felt like forever, hours upon hours, slowly, one small step after the other. He was shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering and gasping for breath. He couldn’t feel his toes anymore. He couldn’t feel much of anything.

 The light was still in the distance, though, growing larger and brighter as he drew closer. It was definitely real, he was not imagining it. That was what kept him going. He came across a campfire, still warm. He was close now, he had to be. Just a little further.

 “There he is!”

 “Thank the maker!”

 Aldaron did not feel his knees hit the ground as his legs finally gave out. He was unconscious before his head hit the snow.


	5. Inquisitor

The news spread through camp like wildfire, started by a scout who came running down from the mountain pass panting and stumbling through the snow. They found the Herald. He was alive.

Everyone wanted to see for themselves if it was true. There was a lot of jostling and cheering, at least until they actually saw him. Rather, they saw Cullen and they saw the limp body in his arms. The sight stopped Dorian dead in his tracks the same way it had stopped so many others. Lavellan certainly did not look alive. The elf was unconscious, dead weight as Cullen carried him into the camp. The Commander was shouting for a healer, a surgeon, anything. For the first time in his life Dorian wished he was less good at blowing things up and significantly better at putting them back together. As it was he would probably do more harm than good considering Lavellan’s delicate condition. The elf’s yellow hair was tinged red on one side, his lips and fingers purple, his skin was almost as white as the snow, which made the branching tattoos on his face stand out in even starker contrast than usual. And he looked so small, like a child. Dorian stared until Cullen disappeared into a tent closely followed by Mother Giselle and a mage Dorian did not recognize. That had to be the healer. He hoped they were good. 

The tent flap swung closed and Dorian continued to stare even as Cassandra took up a guard outside and glared hard enough to send most of the onlookers shuffling away. He felt useless and had since escaping Haven on the tail end of an avalanche. Dorian was rubbish at this whole survival thing, and if he’d thought his cabin in Haven was cold the tents were infinitely more so. He had also had to share a tent the night before with Varric which was an experience to say the least.

The tense atmosphere that had lifted briefly at news of the Herald’s survival settled over the camp again. Yes, he was a live, but for how long?

There was no further news beyond ‘yes, he’s still alive’ for a full day. Dorian wasn’t the only person who kept looking over at that tent every few moments, but he liked to think he was somewhat less obvious about it than everyone else. Of course, after proving himself utterly hopeless at camping, and with at least half the population still actively avoiding the “Tevinter magister”, there was little else for Dorian to do but sit around and wait for news. 

Late in the afternoon that next day the tent flap opened and the Herald emerged. He was clearly still weak. He walked slowly, Mother Giselle hovered at his side but did not actually offer any help, didn’t even touch him. Just there to make sure he didn’t faint and bash his head in on a rock. Someone had washed the blood out of his hair, but his face was still ashen and he was dressed in the same weather beaten and bloodstained clothes they had found him in.

The Herald made his way across the camp slowly, waylaid every few steps by someone coming up to greet him. They all bowed their heads respectfully; some clasped his hands in theirs. The Herald received them all with a polite smile and nod, but he was obviously quite worn out from his miraculous return to life. Why were they all bothering him? Couldn’t they see he was tired? What was he even doing out of bed?

Meeting with his council, it turned out. That was where his slow, halting walk led him eventually; to the make-shift table where the four heads of the Inquisition had been arguing for the better part of the day. Dorian was too far away to make out anything they said unless the argument got particularly heated. The conversation grew hushed as the Herald arrived and leaned heavily against the table. They all seemed calm and relieved for the first time Dorian had seen since the attack.

So it seemed the Herald of Andraste did more than show up and wave his hand at rifts. Well, he also faced down Archdemons and talking darkspawn monsters. And rose from the dead if one believed the gossip around camp, but Dorian was not that stupid. His survival might be somewhat miraculous, but Dorian did not believe for a second that he had actually died. (Not unless you counted all those horrible seconds before he’d been found when Dorian did actually think the elf dead and buried under half a mountain’s worth of snow. Dorian wasn’t counting those; he was pretending they never happened.)

Whatever the Herald had to say did not last long before Mother Giselle was rounding him up again like a stray child and ushering him over to the nearby infirmary to lay down again. Good. He obviously needed more rest. 

Seeing him up and about, weak though he was, took a weight off Dorian’s chest that he had not even been aware of. At least not consciously aware of, because if he was honest with himself he was not hanging around here watching the elf’s tent for hours just because he had nothing better to do. But seeing him alive and awake and moving under his own power was a huge relief, and Dorian no longer felt the need to sit around watching and waiting. He had his answers. Lavellan would be fine.

The Herald’s report of what had happened at Haven spread through the camp quickly. If they were trying to keep things quiet they were doing a rather terrible job. More likely the spread of news was intentional. Dorian heard it from Varric, one of the few people not actively avoiding him and still his slightly unwilling roommate. Dorian was used to people avoiding him, but when he heard who this Elder One claimed to be it all made much more sense. One of the magisters who had breached the Fade a millennia ago. Dorian might have laughed except that the look on Varric’s face was dead serious and more than a little worried. Also he didn’t believe Lavellan would lie about this. He got the impression that Lavellan lied about very little. Save perhaps his self-assurance. Although Dorian could not imagine facing down an Archdemon and coming away without a boost of confidence, so perhaps that issue was solved.

Dorian was certainly more than impressed by everything he had seen the Herald do. Although he had been a little skeptical at first – back in Redcliff the elf had seemed more like a frightened deer than a leader of armies – but after watching him at Haven there was no doubt that Lavellan had it in him. There was also no doubt that the people here cared about more than the mark on his hand. The worry and fear and utter despair in the camp when all thought him dead made it perfectly clear how much the people cared for their Herald. 

Lavellan might doubt himself still, but Dorian certainly did not.

\----------

They were up and moving first thing in the morning, everyone packing up and breaking down tents for their journey to… well Dorian wasn’t actually certain where they were going. The Herald would lead them; that was the word going around. Lead them where, no one seemed to know. That didn’t engender a lot of confidence, but it was better than freezing or starving to death here. And he didn’t think the Herald would take them wandering aimlessly through the wilderness. The elf had to have some destination in mind. Dorian hoped it was out of these wretched mountains. Maybe somewhere warm. A man could dream.

The going was slow and miserable, slogging through snow and over rocks for nearly three full days. Dorian had just about given up hope of ever having dry socks again when he crested a rise and saw it there in the distance. Sitting atop a pinnacle of rock and framed by the higher peaks behind it. 

Skyhold.

Dorian wasn’t much for southern architecture (drab and inelegant, function over form, nothing like home), but after four days in tents and snow that grey stone fortress was the greatest thing he had ever seen.

Night had fallen by the time the last of the refugees filed across the bridge and in through the gates. They set up camp in the courtyard. The fortress had certainly seen better days. Many of the structures looked ready to collapse any moment and no one wanted to risk going inside in the dark. 

Dorian didn’t know where the Herald and his advisors had disappeared to, and at the moment he didn’t care. He was just glad to be out of the wind and the snow of the mountain passes. It was still cold here, but the walls sheltered them from the worst of the winds and the ground was mostly devoid of snow. He threw himself, exhausted, down onto his bedroll and was asleep in moments. Maybe by this time tomorrow he would have a roof over his head again. That would be proof the Herald worked miracles.

By the time he woke the next morning – and of course he had overslept rather significantly – all the camp was in a commotion. People were milling about everywhere, seeming in a much improved mood for having found this place. He imagined the day would be spent scouring the keep, ensuring the structure was fit for habitation and planning the necessary repairs. He wondered where he would fit in in all that. Manual labor was not exactly his strong suit. Not to mention he was still being pointedly shunned. 

That was when he spotted the Herald for the first time in days, mounting the stairs up toward the main hall. Someone had scrounged him up some new clothes. They were hideous, but it was entirely unfair how good they made his legs look. Absolutely criminal. That’s Andraste’s chosen prophet, Dorian, stop staring at his arse. 

What stopped his staring was unfortunately not his own willpower, but the gathering crowd, the whispered gossip. The Herald would lead the Inquisition now. Officially. 

He found himself rather embarrassingly cheering alongside the soldiers and the commoners, and he felt something – pride? – swell up in his chest as he watched the Herald take up that ridiculous sword. That thing was nearly as big as he was. Poor elf looked like he could barely lift it, but it painted an impressive picture and obviously had the desired effect. 

“Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!”

The responding cheer was deafening.

\----------

Inquisitor.

Aldaron had accepted it, but he was nervous. The people were overjoyed. He no longer doubted their faith in him, though he worried it was misplaced. A Dalish elf leading a human religious movement. Someday historians would laugh about it. He was determined, though, to make sure he did right by the people here. They wanted him to lead, and they trusted him, and he would not let them down. It was him their enemies wanted, after all. It would be cowardly to make someone else take up the title of Inquisitor, to make someone else fight his battles for him. 

Skyhold was magnificent. Even in its current state of disrepair and neglect the fortress was impressive. 

It was the second day since the Inquisition’s arrival. Repairs to the main structures were already underway. Everywhere soldiers and scouts and merchants and mages alike were clearing debris, inspecting walls, setting up scaffolding. Absolutely everyone was lending a hand somewhere. It was inspiring. 

The Inquisitor, of course, was above such work. Or at least that was the impression he got. He had made his rounds, checking in on every endeavor, talking with the handful of people he was beginning to consider friends. But if he ever offered to lend a hand he was turned away. We have everything under control, Inquisitor, don’t mind us. Surely you have more important things to worry about.

Not really.

So Aldaron explored. He wandered the courtyards, climbed the battlements, cautiously looked into the crumbling towers. This was his castle, apparently, though the concept of owning a place was completely foreign to the elf. He had never stayed in one place long enough to consider the location home. Home was where the clan was. Thinking of them tore painfully at his heart. There had been only one message from them back in Haven, inquiring about his health. How would they react when they learned he had been made Inquisitor? Would they be proud of him? Were they still safe in the Free Marches? The clan of the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. That was too much recognition; it was dangerous for Dalish elves. 

His thoughtful explorations eventually lead Aldaron to… what did shemlen call places like this? A library? That sounded right. Aldaron had never seen so many books in his life. Where did they come from? Had they all just been here? He paused at the top of the stairs and looked around the circular room. Every wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelves. They were not all full, but it was still an impressive number of books. He saw a few people milling about, scanning through the tomes, piles of books on tables and on the floor. 

He saw Dorian. 

In the midst of everything else he had almost forgotten about the man. There were too many other things to think about. But seeing him now, Aldaron was happy. He had been happy to see all of his companions alive and well after such a harrowing experience, but he was lying to himself when he thought this was the same feeling.

He had just opened his mouth for a greeting, but Dorian spoke up first. “Brilliant, isn’t it?” the man asked without looking away from the shelf he was perusing. “One moment you’re trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle, yes? Then, out of nowhere, an Archdemon appears and kicks you in the head.” Well that was certainly one way of putting it. “ ‘What? You thought this would be easy?’ ‘No, I was just hoping you wouldn’t crush our village like an anthill.’ ‘Sorry about that. Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can’t be helped.’ Am I speaking too quickly for you?”

Aldaron realized he must look as stunned as he felt. He’d been a little overwhelmed by Dorian’s diatribe and let his mask slip. Why did this always happen around Dorian? “I was distracted, that’s all,” he said, trying to look less like a slack-jawed idiot than he felt.

“Distracted? By my wit and charm?” Dorian sounded so pleased with himself. “I have plenty of both.”

“It’s nice to meet someone so aware of their talents,” Aldaron blurted out, and regretted it immediately. That was supposed to be something diplomatic, like Josephine always wanted him to be, but what came out was not at all what he’d intended.

“I’m a man of many talents, what can I say?” Dorian just laughed, though. If anything, he seemed flattered. Comforting to know he hadn’t messed up too badly. But Dorian sobered quickly. “I always assumed the ‘Elder One’ behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry’s tales of magisters starting the Blight are just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters. A darkspawn.”

Aldaron might not know very much about Chantry teaching, but he knew the story of how the Blights began. He was surprised – though perhaps he shouldn’t be – to learn that Tevinter’s Chantry was telling a different story. “Who does the Imperium say started the Blight?” he asked curiously. 

“You know how it is. ‘Not us.’ ” Dorian said, and made a frustrated noise. “They say darkspawn were always there; magisters and the Blight aren’t even related. Is that a surprise? No one wants to admit they shit the bed.” Aldaron frowned a little at the analogy, accurate though it was. “But if Corypheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City and he’s darkspawn… What other explanation is there?”

So the Imperial Chantry lied to hide their mistakes. Put in that light it really was not surprising at all. He wondered how many people actually bought their version of the story, though? Had Dorian? Was that why he was so upset? “Why does that make you angry?” Aldaron asked.

“Because the Imperium is my home,” Dorian replied, and Aldaron watched all the anger drain out of him in an instant. “I knew what I was taught couldn’t be the whole truth, but I assumed there had to be a kernel of it. Somewhere. But no. It was us all along. We destroyed the world.” 

The expression on Dorian’s face absolutely broke Aldaron’s heart. He imagined learning something similar about his own people, and how painful that would be. He wanted to say something that would make the man feel better. “You didn’t do anything. Those men did. A thousand years ago.” Pretty words, just like Josephine had been teaching him. Pretty but empty.

“True,” Dorian admitted, “Except that one of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention I have idiot countrymen who would happily follow him down that path again.” He sighed, composed himself again, and looked at Aldaron with that stare that saw through him so easily. “No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you, either. You know that, yes?”

Of course he knew that. Everyone outside the Inquisition hated him, Aldaron knew that. The Chantry, the Templars, Corypheus. Whatever the history books wrote about him, he would either be the Dalish elf that mucked everything up, or the hero whose race was conveniently never mentioned. But he wasn’t doing this for them. He was doing this because he couldn’t stand back and watch the world fall apart without doing something to help. And he could help. He could help more than anyone else. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “I knew there was something clever about you,” he said knowingly. “All I know is this: Corypheus must be stopped. Men like him ruined my homeland. I won’t stand by and let him ruin the world.”

They were of a similar mind on that much. Dorian had always been vocal about his distaste for the Venatori, but perhaps Aldaron had been a little worried, somewhere in the subconscious back of his mind, that he wasn’t so very different from his countrymen. Now he had no such doubts. 

Dorian looked away from the Inquisitor then, back to whatever he had been doing before, but almost as an after thought looked over his shoulder again. “Oh, and congratulations on that whole leading-the-Inquisition thing, by the way,” he said, turned away again before he could see the pink on Aldaron’s cheeks.

“Dorian,” the elf said before the mage could leave entirely.

“Yes?” Dorian stopped again and looked back at him once more. 

What had he been planning to say? The words suddenly all stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down, forced the mask back into place. He had to say something, though.

“Have you been to see Alexius?” Aldaron asked, and cringed inwardly in regret. Dorian was already in a bad mood from their conversation, surely he was just going to make it worse.

He knew they had dragged the magister out of Haven and had found a suitably secure location for him here in Skyhold, though from what he knew the man had made absolutely no attempt to escape. They were going to ask Aldaron what to do with him soon. Probably as soon as anyone could spare a thought from making sure Skyhold was actually habitable. He had not forgotten that the man had once been Dorian’s friend, and that would make things difficult. What Alexius had done in Redcliff was horrible, but if Aldaron understood correctly, the man had really only wanted to save his son. He had been scared, and he had made several terribly bad decisions as a result. Aldaron knew the feeling. 

Dorian hesitated before answering, and did not meet Aldaron’s eyes. “I saw him before they locked him up. He looked… despondent. Broken. Not the man I remember, nor the one I want to.”

Aldaron nodded in understanding. He had not known Alexius before, but Dorian seemed to have had a high opinion of him at one point. That had to count for something. 

“I suppose the Inquisition will judge him eventually,” the man continued thoughtfully. “I wonder if there’s any chance they’ll show him mercy.” Dorian had to know Aldaron would be the one to make that decision, yet he was speaking so impersonally. Was this his way of asking for mercy without having to outright say it? “He hardly deserves it, but for Felix’s sake, I can’t help hoping there’s something left of the man I once knew.”

Aldaron chewed the inside of his cheek but forced his expression to remain calm. It was true, Alexius had tried, and very nearly succeeded, to kill him. Someone else might have put him to death immediately. But there had been enough death already. “The decision won’t be made lightly,” the Inquisitor assured him.

Dorian turned toward him and offered a small smile. “That means quite a bit, coming from you,” he replied. 

Aldaron swallowed heavily over the sudden pounding of his heart. He hoped that whatever decision was made, it was something Dorian approved of. He regretted bringing up the topic now. The pain in Dorian’s voice when he spoke of Alexius was so obvious, and Aldaron did not want to cause him any further hurt. There were more important considerations than Dorian’s feelings, though, and that made the decision harder than ever. “I should go,” Aldaron said, before he wound up making promises he could not keep.

“Naturally,” was all Dorian said before Aldaron fled down the stairs, mind racing.


	6. Letters

“I like a good reanimated corpse as much as the next man, certainly, but this is just excessive.” Dorian was unhappy. He had made that abundantly clear many times over. He complained about the rain, he complained about the mud, he complained about the smell.

“You’re lucky you missed the Fallow Mire, then,” Varric commented. “Imagine this, but with twice as many corpses and Avvar barbarians constantly trying to kill you. Whole place smelled like rotting flesh and wet dog.”

“I’d really rather not, thank you.”

This was supposed to be easy. Go to Crestwood, find Hawke’s Grey Warden contact, and then back to Skyhold to plan their next move. Instead they had fought their way through the walking dead, red templars, bandits, and demons. Now they were slogging through the muddy, waterlogged, dank caves below the emptied lake in search of the rift that was likely causing all the trouble.

Nothing was ever easy, was it?

Dorian was unhappy and extremely vocal about it. Varric and Blackwall were obviously miserable as well, though they were quieter about it. Aldaron felt absolutely wretched, but he did not show it at all. The Inquisitor’s façade was better than the Herald’s had ever been. It had to be. There was a lot more riding on his shoulders now.

“We’re almost there,” the Inquisitor reported, interrupting the grumbling of his companions. He could always tell when they were close to a rift. They made his hand hurt. The anchor would ache, then throb, and burst to life with that familiar green glow and tearing pain. He was following the pain like a homing beacon through the maze of passages. Surprisingly, it worked.

This rift was bigger than the ones they usually stumbled across. It had to be to be causing this much trouble. The room was already crawling with demons when the Inquisitor and his small band showed up, and more kept pouring out before Aldaron had a chance to seal the rift. By the time they cleared out the room enough for the anchor to work the elf was exhausted. He had to brace both arms on his knees to catch his breath and to keep his hand from shaking. Closing rifts always hurt the worst, and this one had been particularly bad.

“You alright, Inquisitor?” Blackwall asked from somewhere behind him.

“Fine,” the Inquisitor replied. He was not injured. Nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises at least. He took a deep breath and straightened, clenching his left hand as hard as he could to try and hide the trembling. “Let’s get out of here.”

Finding their way out was a little more difficult than getting in. Aldaron did not have the mark to guide him this time, and he hadn’t exactly been paying the best attention on the way in. But they did eventually find a ladder and a passage that lead back out to the hills overlooking the village.

It had stopped raining, and the clouds were clearing. On the horizon the last reds and oranges of the sunrise were just disappearing. Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of his companion’s happy murmuring at the chance to dry out, and Dorian wringing out the edge of his robe.

“We should go meet Hawke, now that’s dealt with,” the Inquisitor said. He was exhausted, of course, but felt they had delayed enough already. Josephine would say it was rude to keep the man waiting on them any longer.

“Are you quite serious?” Dorian asked in disbelief.

“It’s why we came here in the first place,” the Inquisitor reminded him.

“Yes, I have not forgotten,” Dorian replied, leaning maybe a little too heavily on his staff to make it look casual, “But we’ve also just spent all night – literally all night – fighting demons and corpses.”

“Sparkler’s got a point,” Varric agreed. “I think we could all use a bit of rest after all this. A bite to eat, maybe some dry clothes. Hawke’s been here days already, what’s another few hours? He’ll be fine.”

Aldaron looked between his three companions, frowning in concentration. He was still trying to get the hang of this leadership thing. It didn’t help that every spare moment at Skyhold was spent with Josephine or Leliana or Vivienne or some combination of the three being lectured about the ins and outs of politics and noble houses and proper behavior. It was overwhelming and confusing. He thought that getting away for a while would be a relief, but it wasn’t. There was not less to think about outside of Skyhold, only different things, and it all got muddled up in his head until he wasn’t sure what he was expected to do anymore.

But he was exhausted. And they were all exhausted. And maybe this was the wrong decision. Maybe the Inquisitor should not let his followers question his decisions. But Aldaron really liked the sound of a nap and some dry boots. “Alright,” the Inquisitor eventually relented. “We’ll head back to the fort after speaking with the mayor. With luck the scouts will have it cleaned up by now.”

Of course the mayor of Crestwood was not to be found, only a letter confirming what they had already suspected. Aldaron was disgusted and horrified. How could someone willfully kill so many people? But the Inquisitor understood the man’s reasoning, at least, even if he did not approve of the methods. How many innocents had died by this man’s hand? Was the end result worth the cost? Such thoughts kept the Inquisitor silent as they returned to the newly captured Caer Bronach.

Their arrival found the fort bustling with newly arrived scouts and soldiers, anyone who had been in the area quickly rerouted to secure the keep until more permanent postings could be established. The bodies of the previous inhabitants had been removed, the blood washed away, and tents set up in the main courtyard. The small party must look terrible for the looks they are getting, and how they are immediately being offered food and rest. They do look terrible, actually. Aldaron is soaked to the bone, his boots caked in mud, his clothes spattered with blood or whatever demons have. Behind him the others are in a similar state, Varric is fussing over Bianca and Dorian keeps self-consciously fixing his hair. As soon as he is pointed to a tent Aldaron slips inside and is barely able to strip out of his sodden clothes before crawling into the bedroll and falling into exhausted sleep.

Unfortunately the sun was shining bright, the tent fabric not enough to keep it out, and Aldaron had never been able to sleep in the daytime. He managed only a few hours of rest before his body insisted that he should be up and doing something, not sleeping the day away. His clothes were still damp, but he pulled them on anyway for lack of anything else to wear, and left the boots sitting outside the tent where hopefully the sun would help them dry faster. Aldaron was still not a fan of shoes in general, though he supposed they had certain benefits, but absolutely could not stand them when wet. He combed through his hair with his fingers, pulling at any knots and pushing stray locks out of his eyes before stepping out of the tent.

Movement in the keep had lessened somewhat, but Aldaron could see there was still a lot of work to do to bring this place up to Inquisition standards – Cullen’s standards. Aldaron moved through the camp, offering a polite smile and a nod for anyone who greeted him. He found the make-shift kitchen and stole an apple and half a loaf of bread before retreating to the battlements for the small amount of solitude they would grant.

The countryside here was actually rather beautiful when it wasn’t swarming in demons and bandits. Crestwood was probably a very nice village when it wasn’t struggling to survive. All of this trouble, all the people dead, because of one fade rift. It only made Aldaron more certain that he had to do everything he could to bring peace and stability back to the world.

Aldaron had already devoured the apple and half the bread when he heard someone climbing up the ladder behind him. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see Dorian’s head appear over the top of the wall, once again perfectly groomed. “Ah, there you are,” the man said, and pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the wall. “One would think you’d been kidnapped by assassins the way that scout was going on.”

Aldaron frowned. He hadn’t meant to slip off unnoticed or make anyone worry about him. “Are they looking for me? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is perfectly under control. Breakfast – or lunch, I suppose – is prepared and… I see you have already found it,” Dorian cut himself off when he saw the food in the Inquisitor’s hand, “Marvelous. I climbed this ladder for no reason.”

“Sorry,” Aldaron said. He really hadn’t meant to cause any inconvenience, and yet here it was. But why was Dorian here to tell him this? “They sent you to tell me to eat breakfast?”

Dorian scoffed, “Hardly. Can you picture me taking orders from a cook?” He clapped a hand to his chest in over-dramatic horror. “Rather, no one quite knew where you’d run off to, but as I am so very clever, I know that our dear Inquisitor seems to enjoy his solitude from time to time, but he is not so stupid as to run off on his own. Through deductive reasoning and process of elimination, I concluded that you had to be somewhere up here. And here you are. I was right.”

It seemed like Dorian knew him better than Aldaron had expected. Or knew his habits, at least. Of course, it was not the first time that the mage had found him purposefully isolating himself. “That is… very perceptive of you.”

“I am probably far too perceptive for my own good, to be quite honest. And I should be offended that you haven’t noticed before,” Dorian replied. “But I suppose you have more important things to occupy your mind, Inquisitor.”

“Aldaron,” the elf blurted out before he even realized he was speaking.

Dorian’s eyebrows crept up toward his hairline. “I’m sorry?” he asked in confusion.

Aldaron tried very hard not to blush from embarrassment, or to stammer. “My name,” he clarified, “Aldaron. No one says it anymore, I feel like I might forget.” He had not heard it spoken aloud since Haven, and then only rarely. Now it was always “Inquisitor” or “your worship” and if he was lucky “Lavellan”, but never his given name.

“Do you want them to?” Dorian asked slowly.

For a moment Aldaron does not understand the question, and then he realizes that if every soldier, every scout, every mage, every servant called him by name it would be too much to bear. He hid behind the mask of Inquisitor, and was only able to do so by remaining distant from all but a few people. The Inquisitor was not Aldaron, he was a person who was confident and brave and made decisions that impacted the world, who showed no weakness to his followers. Aldaron was a lost Dalish hunter who had stumbled into things he did not understand, who would rather be climbing trees than leading armies. “No, not all of them,” the elf replied softly. “But you could.”

“And to what do I owe such an honor?” Dorian asked.

The longer he was the Inquisitor, the more he feared that Aldaron was slipping away. Someday he’s going to put on the mask and he wouldn’t be able to take it off. He needed someone who understood, so here he was spilling his guts to Dorian for no good reason. Like always. But he couldn’t say that. “We traveled through time together,” he said instead, “I think that earns you something. Besides,” Aldaron hesitated a moment, this really was spilling his guts and he didn’t know if it was a good idea at all, “I like you.”

Dorian stared at him for a moment, and then grinned the widest grin that Aldaron had ever seen on his face. “Of course, there is so much about me to like.” Aldaron was unable to help the way the corner of his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit. Dorian noticed, of course, and smiled even wider if that was possible. “Well, Aldaron,” he said the name in a way that made the elf’s heart beat faster, “There is food to be had if you desire, everyone is rested and dry, and we are prepared to follow wherever you might lead, at your order.” Dorian finished by bowing with a completely excessive amount of flourish. The sort of thing that coming from foreign dignitaries made him uncomfortable, but with Dorian still smirking at him it was difficult to keep from laughing.

“Very well,” Aldaron replied, bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep his composure. “You can tell the others I’ll be down shortly, and we’ll head out.”

“As you wish,” Dorian nodded curtly and turned to climb back down off the battlements.

Aldaron turned around again and waited as long as he could manage before he simply couldn't stop the foolish grin from spreading across his face any longer.

* * *

Crestwood really was a rather nice place when it was not swarming with demons and walking corpses and red templars and bandits and dragons. And without such dangerous distractions the rest of their business in the region went swimmingly. Or at least as well as could be expected.

They met and spoke at length with Hawke’s Grey Warden contact – a man named Stroud who seemed trustworthy enough. Aldaron likely learned more Grey Warden secrets than he was ever meant to know, but with the state of the world that hardly seemed important. And if Corypheus was somehow controlling the minds of Wardens then that was something the Inquisition needed to know so they could plan accordingly. It was a lot of information to take in, but Aldaron remembered it as best he could in order to report back to his council at Skyhold. There were plans to be made; it was a long journey to the Western Approach.

That was the first thing Aldaron did when they returned to Skyhold (after changing out of the clothes he’d been wearing for nearly a week, of course). After days on the road and hours in war council the Inquisitor was ready for a nap, or a really long bath. He did not appreciate being accosted as soon as he stepped into the great hall.

Aldaron had mixed feelings about Mother Giselle. She was nice, she obviously had good intentions, and she had been really very accommodating and patient while he recovered from the avalanche. But she would not shut up about Andraste and the Maker and Aldaron felt like every conversation with her she was trying to convert him.

“Inquisitor, if I could have a moment of your time?” the woman asked, as polite and modest as always, and yet Aldaron wanted to refuse her.

“What is it?” he asked instead, and plastered on his best diplomatic expression.

“I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter,” Giselle said tactfully, but not without a bit of a sneer on the last word.

Aldaron was well aware that many people were distrustful of Dorian, and considering his homeland’s history it was probably with good reason. But the mage had done nothing to earn such suspicion from Aldaron, and if the Inquisitor trusted him, that should be good enough for everyone else, shouldn’t it? “Is that a note of distaste I detect, Mother Giselle?” he asked, trying to sound authoritative.

To her credit, the woman looked properly apologetic. “I… admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor, but my feelings are of no importance. I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

Aldaron wished he could say that he was, but his conversations with Dorian had not ventured into that aspect of his past as of yet. He was aware of Dorian’s time apprenticing under Alexius, and of his general distaste for Tevinter society, but little more. “I’ve not spoken to Dorian about much of his past,” he was forced to admit.

“They’ve asked to arrange a meeting,” Mother Giselle explained. “Quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I had hoped…”

Hoped what? That he might order Dorian to go meet with his family? Kick him out of the Inquisition and send him back to Tevinter? No doubt that was what the woman wanted. “Just what kind of ‘meeting’ do they have in mind?” he asked. He liked Dorian, and would like the mage to stay with the Inquisition. He would not willingly send him into a pit of vipers.

“I believe they just want to talk,” Mother Giselle assured, “To understand why Dorian felt he had to come here. Somewhere private. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter. You make them nervous, I think. They don’t understand why he’s with the Inquisition. They want him to come home.”

That sounded reasonable enough. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter sounded good. And as long as it was just talking… “What happens if Dorian doesn’t agree?”

“Hopefully that will be the end of it. If not… Well, that is why you should be there,” Mother Giselle said.

Aldaron frowned. That meant she expected they would do more than talk if Dorian did not agree to go back with his family. He didn’t like the sound of that. If Dorian wanted to stay here, then he should be able to. Aldaron would not throw him out, or let anyone drag him away without his consent. But something about this didn’t make sense. “Why would his family contact you?” the Inquisitor asked.

“Because they don’t know you, Inquisitor,” the woman said patiently. “I’m not of the Imperial Chantry, but they know what I represent. These are parents concerned about the welfare of their son. How could I not do whatever possible?” Even if it meant lying to Dorian? Tricking him? “I would speak to the young man myself, but… he does not care for me.”

Neither did Aldaron, but he had to be polite and diplomatic with everyone he met, Dorian did not have such restrictions. “If you think I’m going to trick Dorian into meeting his family…”

He was cut off as Mother Giselle sighed, “I feared you might say that,” she murmured. “The family retainer will meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end the matter there. I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor. Perhaps their letter will persuade you.” She handed over the folded parchment and took her leave with a small bow.

Aldaron stared down at the letter for a long moment before opening it. He read it. He probably shouldn’t have. These matters were probably something that Dorian would prefer to deal with in private, without so many middlemen. But he could not help himself, he was curious. Unfortunately the letter was too vague and answered none of his lingering questions. It was wrong to trick Dorian, though. He would let the man make his own decision now as to whether or not he wanted to meet his family. If he didn’t, a message could be sent to the retainer in Dorian’s stead.

Still holding the letter in both hands Aldaron headed to the library, when Dorian seemed to spend most of his time. If he was not still resting after their trip to Crestwood, Aldaron expected to find him there.

His instincts were correct, but Dorian was reading something, seemingly engrossed in whatever book he had picked up this time. Aldaron immediately hid the letter behind his back and hesitated. Should he interrupt? But this was important, and the longer he put it off the worse it would be.

“Anything interesting?” the elf asked as he approached, trying to sound casual.

Dorian looked up, his face solemn. “A letter regarding Felix. Alexius’ son.”

Aldaron felt his heart stop for a moment. This was a bad time. He should not have interrupted. He should not be here. They had not spoken of Alexius. When the Inquisitor sentenced him to serve the remaining mages (under heavy supervision of course) Dorian had been noticeably absent from the hearing.

“He went to the Magesterium,” Dorian continued, unaware of Aldaron’s momentary panic. “Stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I’m informed. No news of the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word.”

Aldaron’s heart sank even further. “Was?”

“He’s dead,” Dorian said, “The blight caught up with him.”

“I’m sorry,” Aldaron said instinctively, but he meant it. He had not known Felix, met him only briefly, but he had seemed a good man, had been very brave to stand against his father the way he had.

“He was ill, and thus on borrowed time anyhow,” Dorian shrugged, as though that was supposed to make it any better.

“That does not mean you can’t regret his death,” Aldaron said softly. He barely knew the man, and he understood that. Dorian had been close with him, or so he understood.

“I know,” the mage sighed, let himself crumple a little bit. “Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father’s study. ‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves.”

“You make it sound like he was a better person than you,” Aldaron said. Felix had seemed a good man, a very good man, but Dorian was as well.

“What a mad thing to say. Few people are better than I,” Dorian made a valiant attempt at a laugh, but it faded quickly. “Very well. A better person, clearly. Not nearly as handsome.” He looked down at the letter in his hands for a moment, then back up at Aldaron with a small smile, “Thankfully he wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.”

The way that he said it, and the way he was looking at Aldaron, the elf wasn’t entirely sure if Dorian was talking about himself, or about the Inquisitor. He definitely considered Dorian ‘decent’, to say the least. Just as good a person as Felix, even if he refused to believe it.

Aldaron thought he was taking the news of Felix’s death incredibly well, also. Of course, it had been expected, so perhaps that lessened the blow somewhat. It still made bringing up this other letter even more difficult. Dorian was already in a bad mood, this would surely just make it worse, and that was the opposite of what Aldaron wanted. He would rather do something to cheer him up, but this had to be take care of. “Dorian… There’s another letter you need to see,” he began slowly.

“Another letter?” Dorian asked, and seemed to push all of his sadness aside, replacing it easily with the smile and good humor that Aldaron was used to. “I’m certainly popular today. Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

“Not quite,” Aldaron wished it were. That would probably have put Dorian in a good mood. “It’s from you father.”

The smile was gone in an instant. “From my father. I see,” his voice was flat. “And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“A meeting,” Aldaron said, and it was painful. This would only end badly, he was certain of it.

“Let me see this letter,” Dorian said stiffly, and held out a hand. Aldaron handed it over without question. Dorian practically tore the thing open and Aldaron watched his eyes scan over the words on the page. “ ‘I know my son,’ ” he scoffed when he finished reading, “What my father knows about me would barely fill a thimble. This is so typical,” he ground out, frustrated and gesturing widely, “I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.”

If all the stories about Tevinter were true that would not be a surprise, but Dorian always insisted that they were exaggerations. “You think your father would actually do that?” Aldaron asked.

“No,” Dorian acknowledged, “Although I wouldn’t put it past him. Let’s go. Let’s meet this so-called ‘family retainer.’ If it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone, you’re good at that.” That was probably the only thing that Aldaron was good at. “If it’s not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wits end.’ ”

Aldaron was actually rather surprised by Dorian’s reaction. He seemed not just angry, but furious. The man had never spoken about his family before, though, so Aldaron could not help wondering why. How did he say this tactfully? “There seems to be bad blood between you and your family.”

Dorian actually laughed, and Aldaron worried for a moment he had said something wrong. “Interesting turn of phrase,” the mage commented. “We’ve never talked about my family before. They’re not happy with my choices, you see, nor I theirs.”

“What choices? Leaving Tevinter?” Aldaron asked. Being completely estranged like this would have been unheard of in his clan, so Aldaron did not understand how someone could be so angry with their family. There were arguments, certainly, but Aldaron had never known someone to cut all ties like this. Things were very different where Dorian came from, though, and he knew that.

“That too,” Dorian said, but did not elaborate. Whatever choices Dorian had been talking about, that was not one of them. What else then? Politics? Blood magic? Slavery? That was all anyone talked about when they spoke of Tevinter. Aldaron was curious, full of questions that he knew he had no right to ask.

“Let’s go meet this retainer, then,” Aldaron offered. The least he could do was make sure that Dorian did not face this alone. “We can leave at first light, I’ll tell Josephine.” They had only just returned to Skyhold that morning, after all, he expected that both of them would appreciate a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed.

“That sounds good to me,” Dorian agreed. “I wonder how much my father paid this man to wait around just in case I showed?” he wondered thoughtfully, “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longish chapter for your reading pleasure. Thanks to everyone who leaves comments and kudos. I'm really pleased with the reception this is getting, especially since I'm flying by the seat of my pants, as it were.
> 
> Come bother me on tumblr. erandir.tumblr.com


	7. Family

The sun was barely a glimmer of red over the mountaintops when Dorian rolled out of bed. It was an absolutely criminal hour of the morning, when no sane person should be awake. Then again, Dorian had slept little the night before. He had spent most of the night awake and staring at the ceiling while his mind quite uncooperatively went over every horrible thing that could happen that day. When the sky began to lighten he gave up trying to sleep (they were set to leave soon anyway) and resigned himself to facing the day, whatever horrors it might bring.

By the time he made his way down to the courtyard, stifling a yawn and doing his best to ignore the nervous roiling of his stomach, the Inquisitor was already there, dressed for travel and stroking the nose of that enormous deer creature he insisted on riding. Beside him, a scout in Inquisition armor held the reigns of Dorian’s horse and another, both already saddled and ready.

“I wasn’t aware we would be having company, Inquisitor,” Dorian commented, his voice a hollow attempt it’s usual silvery tone.

The Inquisitor – Aldaron, he corrected himself somewhat giddily – looked over his shoulder to meet Dorian’s eyes in a way that made the man’s stomach flip with a completely different sort of nerves. “Cullen insisted,” he explained.

It was nearly a full day’s ride to Redcliffe if they had no delays. The roads out of the mountains were generally well traveled by Inquisition troops, and with relative peace brought back to the Hinterlands their trip would probably be uneventful. The Inquisitor can face down monsters and demons, but he can’t take a day trip without supervision. Ridiculous. Or maybe it was Dorian they didn’t trust. That seemed more likely. Did they expect this was all an elaborate rouse to kidnap the Inquisitor and spirit him away to Corypheus’ hideout for a slow and painful death? Actually, someone probably did think that. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised.

“Well, the more the merrier, as you Southerners say,” Dorian replied, despite not finding anything merry about it. He expected this entire trip to be dreadful. The one bright point was supposed to be getting the rare chance to spend time with Aldaron. The elf was so stuffy around Skyhold. All straight backed and serious faced; never smiled, never laughed. But Dorian was beginning to figure out that if you got him alone, the Inquisitor let down his walls a bit. Dorian had even managed to get half a smile out of him once, a fact he was very proud of.

“We should be going, Inquisitor,” the scout interrupted, and pushed reins into Dorian’s hands, watching him with narrowed eyes. She clearly did not like him much, perhaps one of the conspiracy theorists herself. Well, he supposed they had to send someone who wouldn’t hesitate to knife him in the back at the slightest hint of blood magic.

“Of course,” the Inquisitor nodded. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dorian replied. Could one really ever be fully prepared to meet their family’s hired goons? Probably not. And Dorian was quite convinced that the ‘retainer’ was just that. His father wasn’t stupid enough to think that some paper-pusher could convince him to run back home.

He was right about the trip being uneventful. They ran into no trouble on the road, save a short delay for a farmer to drive a herd of sheep across the road. Didn’t even stop for lunch, just travel rations and a flask of wine that Dorian probably drank a little too quickly. His mind kept coming up with new and unique ways this meeting could go horribly wrong. He vacillated between burning anger and gut-wrenching nervousness. Anger at the fresh reminder of everything his father had done to him, a lifetime of disappointment. Nervous that they would walk into a tavern full of mercenaries ready to knock him over the head and drag him home so his father could finish what he’d started. But if that happened, at least the Inquisitor was here. Aldaron would have his back, right? The elf had gotten himself out of worse situations than that.

By the time they rode into Redcliffe village in the mid-afternoon Dorian was really wishing for some more wine. Or something stronger. He dawdled and delayed, saw that the horses were tended, suggested that they go shopping. The scout – he never had gotten her name – was glaring at him, but Aldaron was being infinitely patient. At least Dorian liked to think he was being patient. That was sort of the same face he always had in public; emotionless and unreadable, but pleasant enough that his silence wouldn’t be considered rude.

Dorian could not delay forever, though. Eventually he had to face this. He marched up to the tavern door with determination, then faltered as he reached for the handle.

“Wait out here,” the Inquisitor was instructing their stalwart chaperone, “I’ll call if we need you.”

“Of course, Your Worship.”

Dorian did not need to look to know that she was still glaring at him suspiciously.

“Let’s go, Dorian.” Aldaron’s voice brought him out of his momentary stupor. The words were an order, but the tone was gentle. Dorian grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open.

As soon as he stepped inside he knew that something was wrong. “No one’s here. This doesn’t bode well.” His eyes darted around, expecting someone to leap from the shadows at any moment. He almost wished they had, because the voice he heard next simultaneously sent a chill down his spine and reignited the furious anger he’d felt upon first reading that letter. “Father.”

 

* * *

  
  
He should not be here. This was too personal, too private. Aldaron felt like he was intruding. It wasn’t really his business, was it? He should probably go, leave Dorian to speak to his father in private. But he didn’t. The man was so obviously nervous the whole trip to Redcliffe, and then the raw emotion in his voice, the way he kept glancing at Aldaron. He understood now why Dorian seemed to see through him, to understand him so well. Dorian wore a mask, too, albeit one less rigid than the Inquisitor’s. Dorian hid behind his narcissism and his carefree good humor while the world fell down around them. Now he was letting Aldaron see behind to the betrayed and heartbroken man inside. Just like Aldaron had shown Dorian in Redcliffe, and in Haven.

He couldn’t just abandon him. Not even after things calmed down. Aldaron just retreated to the far side of the tavern and tried not to eavesdrop while Dorian finally spoke calmly to his father.

It probably wasn’t his place to push them to talking as he had, but family was very important where Aldaron came from. Before all this, the clan was all he knew. Now he had been away from them for months, the longest he had ever been away from his family, and it was possible he might never see them again. The thought tore at his heart, and he wouldn’t wish the same pain on anyone. Maybe someday, when the wound was less fresh, Dorian would want to reconnect with his family. Aldaron wanted him to have the chance, at least.

He kept an eye on the two men at the far side of the room and tried not to be obvious about it. It felt like ages he stood there, hovering by the window and glancing over at Dorian every few seconds. Finally the two men stepped apart, shared a few last words, and then his father left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Dorian stayed where he was for a long moment, staring at the closed door, and then sat down heavily at the nearest table.

Without thinking, Aldaron left his spot by the window and went to his side. He knew that none of this had been easy for Dorian, and he wanted to help, but he didn’t know what to say.

“He says we’re alike, too much pride,” Dorian murmured before Aldaron could even open his mouth. He was staring down at the wood of the tabletop, apparently deep in thought. “Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“He tried to… Change you?” Aldaron asked hesitantly. It was wrong to pry, he knew that, but he wanted to understand. What had Dorian’s father done to drive his son away like this?

“Out of desperation,” Dorian replied with a sigh, and looked up at Aldaron. “I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left.”

Aldaron could not hide his shock. He would resort to blood magic just because his son wouldn’t marry who he wanted? Of course he would, the Inquisitor reminded himself, this was Tevinter they were talking about. “Can blood magic actually do that?” he asked instead, because it seemed less offensive, and because he really didn’t know. Aldaron understood very little about magic, and even less so about blood magic. That was probably common knowledge by now.

“Maybe,” Dorian shrugged with one shoulder. “It could also have left me a drooling vegetable.” His eyes drifted back down to the tabletop. “It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal.” He still sounded so broken up about it. Aldaron found the idea absolutely horrifying. No wonder Dorian wanted nothing to do with his family, if this ritual could have killed him, or worse. “Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had…” Dorian continued softly. “I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

Aldaron doubted that he would, either. Just another arrogant, bigoted Tevinter noble; exactly the sort of person Dorian hated. Maybe he shouldn’t have made him come here. Maybe it would have been better to send the man away without talking to him. “Are you alright?” Aldaron asked earnestly.

“No. Not really,” Dorian replied, much to Aldaron’s surprise. Dorian obviously wasn’t alright, but he had never expected him to admit it. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Thank you for bringing me out here. It wasn’t what I expected, but… it’s something.” He turned and looked at Aldaron, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his lips. “Maker must know what you think of me now, after that whole display.”

“I don’t think less of you,” Aldaron was quick to assure him. He doubted there was very much that could make him think less of Dorian, especially after all this. He thought Dorian was… incredibly brave, and one of the most determined people he had ever met. “More, if possible.”

Dorian looked surprised to hear that. He let out a breath of laughter. “The things you say,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“I mean it,” Aldaron insisted. He thought the absolute world of Dorian. No one else in the Inquisition seemed to understand him the way Dorian did. They all had such expectations of who and what he should be. No one else tried to get to know the man behind the Inquisitor. Only Dorian. And now, or perhaps from the start, he wasn’t so afraid to let Dorian in. He wasn’t afraid that Dorian would think less of him if he knew that inside the Inquisitor was frightened and confused and so out of his element that sometimes he felt like he was going mad. Dorian would understand. Because Dorian was the same way, wasn’t he?

“My father never understood. Living a lie… it festers inside of you, like poison,” Dorian sighed. Aldaron liked to think he understood. The Inquisitor was not him, but was slowly taking over every aspect of his life. It wasn’t exactly the same, certainly, but perhaps it was similar enough. “You have to fight for what’s in your heart,” he said with determination. The determination that had drawn Aldaron to him in the first place.

“I agree,” the elf murmured, and took a step toward Dorian to… he wasn’t sure what. He just wanted to be close to him, suddenly. Touch him, hold him. Because he understood, and Dorian understood. His eyes met Dorian’s and suddenly he knew exactly what was going to happen. His heart leapt in his chest, his breath caught in his throat, and then Dorian’s lips were on his, hands on his waist. Aldaron’s body moved without thinking, pressing closer to him, arms moving up around Dorian’s shoulders, fingers carding in his hair. The man’s lips were soft against his own and his mustache tickled. It was strange, but he liked it. He liked it a lot more than he would have thought. If he had thought about kissing Dorian before, that is. Which he definitely hadn’t. At all. Ever.

Okay, maybe a little. Once.

Dorian pulled away much too soon for Aldaron’s liking, and left the elf somewhat dazed. The man certainly knew how to kiss. Not that Aldaron had a lot to compare it with.

“I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor,” Dorian’s voice was barely above a whisper, low and breathy and accompanied by a smirk that made Aldaron’s stomach do back flips. His brain had stopped working, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response. He wanted to kiss him again, but Dorian was already stepping away. “At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day.” He was already heading for the tavern’s untended bar. “Join me, if you’ve a mind.”

Aldaron watched him until the sound of the door opening pulled him back to the present. “Your Worship?” They must have been suspiciously quiet in here for too long. He turned slowly toward the scout in the door, still somewhat dazed. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor answered automatically. Everything was more than alright. Heat was suddenly rising to his cheeks again, his ears burned. “I think we’ll be staying the night. If you could find us some accommodations? Nothing fancy, but a proper bed would be nice.” If Dorian truly intended on drinking himself into a stupor, and Aldaron wouldn’t blame him right now, then he did not want the man sleeping on the ground in a tent. He imagined that would only make the hangover that much worse.

The woman nodded curtly and left, letting the door fall shut behind her. When she was gone Aldaron turned back toward the bar. Dorian had found a bottle of something amber colored and was pouring himself a liberal serving.

Now able to think clearly again, Aldaron hesitated. They had kissed, but what happened now? What did it mean for them? Aldaron did not have a lot of prior experience in relationships to draw from. Would this change things? Was Dorian expecting anything? Aldaron chewed the inside of his lip in concern for a long moment before slowly making his way to the bar and sliding into the seat beside Dorian’s. The man looked over at him while he took an experimental sip of his drink. Then he reached across the bar, plucked up another cup, and poured Aldaron a drink as well.

“What are we drinking to?” Aldaron asked. He picked up the cup and sniffed at it – whiskey – then took a small sip. It wasn’t pleasant.

“Warm family reunions,” Dorian replied, tapping his cup against Aldaron’s. The elf didn’t reply, but took another sip of his drink out of respect. He certainly understood why Dorian was in a bad mood, why he was probably drinking to forget. They sat in companionable silence for a while, Dorian drinking, Aldaron turning his cup around in his hands.

“Now that you know all of my darkest secrets I think it’s only fair that I learn some of yours,” Dorian spoke, to break the silence before it became awkward.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your family,” Dorian requested, much to Aldaron’s surprise. “You’ve met mine, dreadful as it is, I hope yours is rather more cheerful. You’re… Dalish? Is that the correct word here?”

“Dalish is the correct word everywhere,” Aldaron told him, and frowned a little. What sort of question was that?

“Ah, my apologies,” Dorian said, ducked his head shallowly and stared down into his cup. “We don’t have Dalish clans coming north. For obvious reasons.” Obvious reasons indeed. Reasons that they had notably avoided talking about before. The reasons for that were probably obvious as well. Aldaron did not want to know. He was probably happier not knowing.

“You want to know about my family?” Aldaron asked, quickly changing the subject before it got any more awkward. Not that the subject could be avoided forever, but Aldaron was happy to live in ignorant bliss for a little longer.

“Yes,” Dorian replied with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Probably just as eager to change the topic of conversation. “All the sordid details. Mother, father, hoard of intolerable siblings?”

“I have one sibling,” Aldaron told him, watching as Dorian topped off his drink. “A younger sister. She’s twelve. Wanted to apprentice with the craftsmaster when I left, but she’s probably changed her mind again by now. She can never stick with anything more than a couple weeks, it drives the Keeper insane.” He smiled a little at the thought of his family, his clan. He missed them terribly, and wondered what they were doing now. There was little news out of the Free Marches and he didn’t have much time for letter writing.

“You should do that more often,” Dorian commented.

“Do what?”

“Smile,” the mage clarified. “It suits you far more than that dour expression you usually wear. Yes, that’s the one,” he said, a little disappointed when the smile faded again.

“I suppose I haven’t had much to smile about lately,” Aldaron admitted. He had spent a long time being frightened and confused, and while the fear had lessened somewhat as he grew more familiar with the role he’d been thrust into, he was still wildly confused about a lot of things. Politics, mostly, and etiquette. Things that had never mattered before.

“That’s a pity,” Dorian replied. “It’s a very nice smile. I’ll have to work harder to see it more often.”

Aldaron thought he probably would not mind if Dorian did. Generally he did find it easier to smile in the man’s presence. It was easier to relax around Dorian. But he didn’t know how to respond to such a statement, and before he could think of anything the tavern door opened again, interrupting his train of thought.

“Inquisitor?” the scout who had accompanied them this whole way interrupted.

“Yes?” Aldaron prompted, turning to face the woman.

“I’ve spoken with the tavern’s owner. He says we can use the rooms here. The… Magister paid to have this place cleared out through the end of the week. We don’t need to pay,” she informed him.

Aldaron wondered idly how much it cost to rent out an entire tavern for a full week. Probably a lot more than he could guess. “Pay him for the night anyway,” the Inquisitor instructed. That would be the polite thing to do. “And for the drinks,” he added, nodding toward the now half-empty bottle of whiskey. Dorian was making quick progress.

“Of course, Your Worship,” the scout answered curtly. “Will you need anything else?”

“Are the horses taken care of?” Aldaron asked.

“Yes, they are in the village stables. Your hart, too. I’m assured they’ll be well tended.”

If there was one thing that Aldaron liked about suddenly being a very important person, it was having someone else deal with things like this (strange as it was to have people waiting on his beck and call). Of course, a lot of the trouble he’d had dealing with innkeepers and stablemasters in the past had been because he was an elf. Now he probably wouldn’t have the same problems. No one would dare call the Inquisitor a knife-ear; question his integrity or his ability to pay. “Thank you,” he said honestly, “I think we’ll be alright from here. You can… do whatever you like. We’ll head back to Skyhold in the morning.”

The scout nodded and gave a small bow before disappearing again. Aldaron had no idea where she was off to, but didn’t care much, either. There was plenty of Inquisition presence in the area, he was not concerned for his or anyone’s safety in Redcliffe. They would all be fine here for the night.

 

* * *

 

Aldaron had never seen anyone drink this much in his life. Of course, alcohol was not terribly common among the Dalish. When you live on the road you tend to carry only the necessities. Alcohol was made in small batches and saved mostly for celebrations. Casual drinking was rare, and certainly never to the extent that Dorian was currently enjoying. The man had gone through almost an entire bottle of whiskey by himself, and then a bottle of wine. Aldaron had been nursing a single glass of that whiskey the entire evening. He could feel the effects already - the slight buzz that made it harder to concentrate but easier to smile - but Dorian could barely sit upright anymore. When the bottle of wine was empty and the man stood up in search of more he nearly fell over. A hand on the bar top and the other on his chair somehow managed to keep him upright, also Aldaron’s hand on his arm.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” Aldaron said, rising from his seat as well. “Let’s get you to bed while you can still walk.”

“Walking is overrated,” Dorian complained.

“I can’t carry you up the stairs, you’re taller than me,” Aldaron pointed out. Dorian sighed melodramatically. “Come on,” the elf said, and pulled Dorian’s arm around his shoulders as he began leading him toward the stairs.

“Yes, Your Worship,” Dorian chuckled, and stumbled after Aldaron as he was pulled across the tavern floor. It was no easy task. There were chairs in the way and Dorian did not seem capable of walking in a straight line. He leaned against Aldaron probably more than was necessary, pressed a little too close to the elf’s side to be considered appropriate.

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” Dorian’s words were somewhat slurred and he leaned heavily on Aldaron as they reached the top of the stairs. “You don’t, do you?” Aldaron didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed silent as he led Dorian to the closest room. He still didn’t think he was anything special, despite all the evidence to the contrary. “Lord Inquisitor Lavellan,” he slurred dramatically, swept his arm out to the side for added effect and nearly lost his balance. Aldaron pulled him back upright and through the door. There was only one bed in the room, but that was fine, he just needed to get Dorian into it. “Whole world bowing at your feet, but you…” he interrupted himself with a short laugh, “You don’t even realize, do you? How much they all adore you.” They were almost there, only a few more steps, but Dorian had stopped dead. With a hand on Aldaron’s cheek he turned the elf’s face toward him so that Aldaron had no choice but to meet his gaze. “How much I adore you.” Before he could even process the words Dorian was kissing him again. His lips tasted like whiskey.

“You’re drunk, Dorian,” Aldaron said breathlessly when they parted.

Dorian smiled, “I am,” he agreed, “I should be so more often. You should, too. Maybe… you’d smile more.”

“You should go to bed,” Aldaron mumbled, looking away as he felt his cheeks heat up.

“Will you join me?” Dorian leered and pulled the elf against his chest. Aldaron did not resist, but he blushed brighter and his ears burned. “When you blush your ears turn the most adorable shade of red, did you know that?”

“Dorian—,” Aldaron did not get a chance to finish his stammered protest. Dorian pulled him toward the single bed and dropped back onto it, still holding Aldaron to his chest. He really should be resisting more than he was. He didn’t want… Well, he did, but…  He didn’t know what he wanted, he was overwhelmed. This was all going much much too fast. He was too nervous, he wasn’t ready. “Dorian,” he protested again, pushing away from the man’s chest. “You’re drunk. You need to sleep.”

“I will sleep,” Dorian promised, and to Aldaron’s great relief the man’s eyelids were already drooping. “You should… stay.”

“Dorian…” the words died on Aldaron’s tongue. Dorian was already asleep. Aldaron pulled out of his slack grasp and scrambled away. In his rush the elf fell straight off the bed with an undignified thump and landed flat on his back, where he remained unmoving, staring at the ceiling while he waited for his heart to stop racing. This was a bit too much all at once. He liked Dorian, felt comfortable around him and felt like Dorian understood him better than anyone else here. That was what frightened him, actually. He liked Dorian too much.

Aldaron rolled over and climbed back to his feet. He needed fresh air. He needed to think.


	8. Understanding

Aldaron stepped out of the tavern and stood in the cool evening air, staring out toward the lake. The fresh air, the light breeze, the smell of the outdoors, already helped calm him down somewhat. It was easier to think outside, not cooped up in some too small room, there wasn’t enough space for his thoughts in there.

He wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. Getting involved with someone; letting himself feel too deeply.

Back home, back with his Clan, he would not have hesitated to pursue a relationship with someone he liked as much as Dorian. Things were less complicated back then, there were no expectations of him other than helping provide for the Clan. Here everything was complicated. Here he was the Inquisitor and the whole world was relying on him. Saving the world was hard, he shouldn’t have any distractions, and Dorian was a distraction. A happy, glorious, beautiful distraction that he wanted so badly it hurt, needed to keep himself from going insane.

The Inquisitor in him said that there was no time for affection and romance and handsome mages with captivating smiles. There were so many things more important than his love life. But the Inquisitor was a symbol, and Aldaron was a person and didn’t he deserve to be happy?

His mind kept running around in circles. It was frustrating. And part of him knew that the moment Dorian smiled at him again he would melt, forget about all his doubts and fears and let himself be swept up in it. It was difficult not to. It would probably be easier to push Dorian away now, before things got out of hand. But Aldaron had never been strong enough to do that.

 

* * *

 

When Dorian woke it was with a pounding head, and aching back, and the sun directly in his eyes. He groaned unhappily and rolled over to bury his face in a pillow that smelled like Ferelden beer and body odor and immediately regretted the decision. He sat up just to get away from that smell, and had to fight down the urge to vomit. You’d think after all these years he would learn how to heal a hangover, but he hadn’t. Not for the first time in his life he swore that he would definitely learn that someday.

Miserable, he hunched over, braced his arms on his knees and held his head in his hands, trying to will the pain to go away. That was when he realized he was still fully dressed, and had no memory of leaving the bar.

He still remembered his father, though, unfortunately. But he also remembered Aldaron. Kissing Aldaron. Oh, he was very glad he remembered that. After all those weeks of flirting it was nice to have real confirmation that Aldaron was interested. The Inquisitor could be completely unreadable when he wanted to be. But kissing, that was a pretty undeniable ‘yes’. And after he had seen Dorian at his absolute worst, even.

Speaking of their illustrious leader, where was he? And where was Dorian for that matter? Ah, yes, the tavern in Redcliffe. That explained the smell. Very slowly Dorian raised his head and looked around the room. There wasn’t much to see, the only furniture in the room was this bed and a single table. By the door his pack and staff leaned against the wall. He wished there were a mirror, because he was quite certain he looked as terrible as he felt. Well, he would make do. He’d gotten good at that during his time with the Inquisition.

Only when his hangover had subsided somewhat and his hair and mustache were as neatly combed as could be did Dorian leave the room in search of his traveling companions. There was only one other door when he stepped into the hallway. It was open and a quick glance inside showed the room to be unoccupied, so he continued downstairs. There were a handful of people in the tavern’s common room. Apparently with his father departed they could get back to business as usual, good for them. He spotted the Inquisition scout, their unwilling and completely unnecessary chaperone and bodyguard, seated at a table by the door, and since there was no sign of the Inquisitor he headed for her.

“The Inquisitor is outside,” the woman said as he walked up, not taking her attention away from the plate of food in front of her. “He’ll want to know you’re awake so we can head back to Skyhold.”

She still didn’t like him. Well that was fine, he didn’t need her to. “Thank you, I’ll be certain to inform him immediately. Would you be so kind as to order me up a plate of whatever this place passes off as food? And perhaps something for this regrettable hangover?” He offered her his most charming smile (or at least the most charming smile he could manage) when she looked up from her own meal.

The woman stared at him a long moment before she sighed and pushed her chair back, “Very well.”

“You have my sincere thanks,” Dorian replied, and gave a small bow before heading for the door. Aldaron was the one he wanted to see anyway.

Outside the morning sun was shining, the birds were singing, it was the beginning of a beautiful day and Dorian absolutely hated it. How dare the world be so nice when he had such an awful hangover?

There was, of course, no sign of the Inquisitor. At least not where Dorian would have expected to find him. The elf was up a tree, sitting on a branch and leaning against the trunk while he stared out toward the lake. “What are you doing in a tree?” the man asked, more surprised than he probably would have been without the hangover.

Aldaron startled and looked down at him, black eyes wide. He looked briefly like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I… The view is better from up here.”

The view? Dorian turned to look where Aldaron had been staring. He supposed it was pretty enough, if you liked that sort of thing. Dorian was not a big fan of nature in any of its forms, but Aldaron was an elf, after all, and he understood that nature was sort of their thing. When he turned back Aldaron swung his legs over the branch he was sitting on and hopped down to the ground as easily as though he were walking down stairs. “How are you feeling?” the elf asked.

“Like death warmed over, to be perfectly honest,” Dorian replied. Now that he was close enough to look at properly (not several feet in the air and half-hidden by foliage), Dorian noticed the dark circles under the Inquisitor’s eyes. Had he not slept? Had he been out here all night? Why? Was it something Dorian had done? He wished he could remember more of the night before, if only to know if he should be begging forgiveness.

The look he got from the elf was lined with sympathy, completely unaware of Dorian’s swirling internal panic. “Have you eaten?”

“Not as of yet,” Dorian said, and clamped down on those feelings. The elf didn’t appear to hate him, so he must not have done anything too bad. Maybe he was reading too much into this. He wasn’t actually sure he could keep anything down right now, but his stomach was reminding him that he’d had nothing but alcohol for dinner the night before. “Have you? I haven’t slept in quite that late, have I?”

“No, you haven’t,” Aldaron assured him. “Come on, the innkeeper’s been at it since sunrise.” So Aldaron had been out here for at least that long, it supported Dorian’s theory that he hadn’t sleep. That was not something he was happy to learn. The Inquisitor got little enough sleep as it was.

“Happy to have his business running again, no doubt,” Dorian said. He couldn’t believe his father had paid to empty out an entire tavern just to have a conversation with him. Actually no, he could believe that. It probably hadn’t even cost very much, Redcliffe didn’t look like a terribly expensive place and his father always did have a tendency toward the overdramatic.

He followed Aldaron back inside the tavern and saw that two plates of food had shown up at the scout’s table. Dorian’s stomach rumbled embarrassingly as he sat down. As soon as he did the scout got up and left, commenting to Aldaron about checking on the horses before disappearing. “I don’t think she likes me very much,” Dorian commented. He picked up his fork and looked dubiously at the food in front of him. Typical southern fare. He still hadn’t gotten used to their habit of overcooking and underseasoning everything. Did the people here not have a sense of taste?

“I’m not sure she likes anyone very much,” Aldaron replied thoughtfully. He took a seat beside Dorian and began eating.

“I suppose it is somewhat demeaning to be assigned babysitting duty,” Dorian said and took an experimental bite of the food. Just as tasteless as he had expected. Wonderful. “Even if you are the most important person in the world.”

“I’m hardly that,” Aldaron protested.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dorian insisted. “Herald of Andraste. Magical glowing hand and all that? You’re certainly top ten, at least.” He wondered how much of this food his stomach could handle at the moment.

“Please don’t call me that,” Aldaron frowned, pushed his food around his plate.

Dorian looked over and studied his face for a moment. The elf looked troubled, upset even. “What? Herald of Andraste?” he asked. Then he realized why the title might upset him. Elves had other gods, didn’t they? “You’re not Andrastian, are you?” Really, it should have occurred to him before, but elven culture was not something Dorian had been educated in. Perhaps he should remedy that. Maybe the library had some books. Or he could always ask Solas, but he imagined that would probably be unpleasant for everyone involved.

Aldaron shook his head. “I believe in the gods of my people.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s fine,” Aldaron sounded so resigned. Like he had given up trying to protest the title. Maybe he had. Dorian had not heard anyone call him ‘Herald’ in a while, but that had been the only thing anyone could talk about in Haven. And he could see why Aldaron would not like being declared prophet of a god he did not believe in.

“I’ll be sure not to use it again,” Dorian promised.

Aldaron looked over at him. Was that expression surprise? It was so hard to tell sometimes. He could see the faintest of smiles pull at the corners of the elf’s mouth, though, and that was always something to feel triumphant about.

 

* * *

 

They left when Dorian felt he was capable of sitting a horse without losing the contents of his stomach. Aldaron was glad to be back on the road again, but he worried about the man. He was putting on a brave face, but looked absolutely miserable when he thought no one was looking. He slumped in his saddle, hung his head, rubbed at his temples, and he was noticeably quieter than usual. Aldaron hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to Dorian’s constant whining about the outdoors, but it was strange not to hear it. The state lasted until midday, when Dorian finally began to look a bit more alert, sat up a bit straighter, and commented on the weather. Aldaron was surprisingly relieved.

Because of their rather late departure from Redcliffe the sun was already setting by the time the party arrived back at Skyhold. “Thank the Maker,” Dorian breathed a sigh of relief as they rode into the courtyard. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath and a proper meal. I feel like I haven’t eaten real food in days.”

“I take it you’re feeling better then?” Aldaron asked. He swung down from his hart, stroking the animal’s nose when it butted against his arm.

“You mean, do I feel well enough that I no longer regret my decisions last night and forget all of my oaths to never drink again?” Dorian laughed as he swung down from his own mount.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Aldaron couldn’t help his smile. It was good to see Dorian back to normal. He had been more concerned than he was willing to admit.

“I am absolutely famished, however,” Dorian complained as he handed his horse over to a stable hand to be tended to. “Do you suppose we’ve missed dinner?”

Dorian was quiet happy to hand all work over to the servants, but Aldaron began unbuckling his hart’s saddle himself. He didn’t see the need to make other people do something so simple when he had the time to do it himself. “If you hurry you might make the tail end,” he replied. “There will probably be something left.”

“We’re well beyond fashionably late by this point, I’m afraid,” Dorian sniffed in disregard. “If we’ll have to settle for leftovers anyway there’s no point in announcing it to the masses.”

Aldaron shrugged and pulled the saddle off entirely. The hart shook itself happily in relief, blanket falling to the ground. Food was food, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t understand this shemlen obsession with when and where and how you dined. Josephine was still struggling to get him to hold a knife the way she wanted, and he didn’t think he would ever understand why there were so many forks. But if Dorian didn’t want to show up in the main hall right now that was perfectly fine, Aldaron preferred eating in privacy anyway. “We’ll have to raid the kitchens, then.”

“Raid the kitchens?” Dorian asked with amusement in his voice as he watched Aldaron begin to brush down the hart. “How rebellious. Does the Inquisitor do that often? I had no idea.”

“Usually when Josephine has the hall full of foreign dignitaries,” Aldaron admitted with more than a little embarrassment. He knew that was incredibly irresponsible of him, to avoid his duties like that. But he would probably pick up the wrong fork and embarrass the entire Inquisition, so really it was for the best.

Dorian laughed. “I don’t blame you. I would do the same. I’ve certainly ditched my fair share of fancy dinner parties, much to my mother’s dismay.”

“Really?” Aldaron asked. “I thought you’d be the sort to enjoy those things.”

“To an extent, yes,” Dorian replied. “Lots of expensive wine and good food, who wouldn’t enjoy that? But the company usually leaves something to be desired, don’t you think? Go to a party in Tevinter and it’s likely that everyone there hates you, including the person who invited you. Probably you’d hate them all, too, so the only reason to go is for the wine and that maybe someone will be assassinated, which would at least be exciting.”

“That’s… very morbid,” Aldaron said with frown.

The mage shrugged, “One must find entertainment somewhere,” he commented. “I do hope that no one gets assassinated at one of your parties, however. I imagine it would make your job rather more difficult.”

It certainly would, so Aldaron appreciated the thought. “You can go ahead if you want, you don’t have to wait for me,” he said.

“And deny you the pleasure of my company?” Dorian grinned when Aldaron blushed faintly, “I’ll wait.”

Aldaron was nearly done anyway. He finished rubbing down the hart while Dorian watched, feeling a little self-conscious. He didn’t usually have an audience. When he finished he patted the animal on the neck and murmured to it softly in Dalish before stepping out of the stall.

“You seem very attached to that creature,” Dorian observed, “What is it you call him?”

“Falon,” Aldaron replied. “It means friend.” He paused outside the stable and glanced back, watching as the hart bowed its head and began eating. “He… reminds me of my clan.” It was the first time he had admitted to anyone that he was homesick. Dorian was the only person he felt comfortable admitting that to.

Dorian was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice was soft and gentle. Sympathetic. “You miss them.” It was not a question.

Aldaron turned back to him, his gaze met Dorian’s and he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny it, didn’t want to. “I have never been away this long before,” he said quietly. “But I hope to see them again, when this is all over.” If he survived this, and it seemed very likely that he would not. But he had to keep hoping.

“I hope you will be able to,” Dorian said. “Now come,” his voice was suddenly cheerful again, trying to break the somber mood, “I am absolutely starved. Share with me your kitchen raiding expertise.”

It did wonders to lift Aldaron’s mood and ease the ache of homesickness.

 

* * *

 

Aldaron and Dorian left the kitchens with the head cook’s shouting ringing in their ears, scolded like small children for getting in the way and absconding with only the very best treats. Aldaron was fairly certain they had taken something intended for a visiting noblewoman. Dorian had seemed positively ecstatic when he laid eyes on this particular fare, however, so Aldaron hadn’t been able to bring himself to protest.

“That woman is an absolute menace,” Dorian whined, nursing a red spot on the back of his hand where he’d been slapped with a wooden spoon. “Fantastic cook, though. Much too good for this place.”

“You weren’t fast enough,” Aldaron replied. She had made several swipes at him as well, but he had managed to dodge all of them.

“I don’t think she was trying as hard with you,” Dorian complained. “She would get in trouble for hitting the Inquisitor.”

“She would not,” Aldaron frowned. He would never get angry over something so small. They had been the ones in the wrong, anyway. The woman was perfectly within her rights to scold them, as far as he was concerned.

“Not from you, maybe,” Dorian shrugged as they stepped out into the main hall, almost completely emptied out now. There was Varric at his usual table by the fire and a handful of people lingering around, but the tables had been cleared off and the most everyone had gone their separate ways for the evening.

Aldaron himself was looking forward to a proper night’s sleep. He was just wondering whether he should invite Dorian to eat with him in private or if that would be too forward. The mage hadn’t acted any different than he had before they kissed, and he was not sure how much of that night Dorian actually remembered. However, before he got a chance to voice his thoughts one way or the other. Halfway across the hall he heard a door open and looked over to see Josephine leaving her office, arms full of papers. That was probably a bad sign, he probably should have turned tail and run immediately, but she spotted him too quickly.

“Oh, Inquisitor!” she called, and immediately headed for them. “I’d heard you returned. I take it the trip went well?”

“Yes, it was absolutely marvelous,” Dorian answered for him, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Josephine barely spared him a disapproving glance before turning her attention back to the Inquisitor. “I was hoping to find you actually. There are some matters that I believe need your attention.”

“This couldn’t possibly wait until the morning?” Dorian interrupted, frowning. “We’ve only just arrived, the poor man hasn’t even eaten yet.”

“It’s alright, Dorian,” Aldaron assured him, even if he did want to tell Josephine to leave him alone right now. He was tired and hungry, but he had responsibilities that he had been dodging for the past two days. He knew he had to at least hear her out. It was nice to think that Dorian was looking out for him, however. “I’m sure it won’t take very long.”

“Only a moment,” Josephine promised with a nod of her head. “I only wished to brief you on the most recent reports.”

“That’s fine,” Aldaron said, and held back a weary sigh. It did sound like something that could wait until morning, but he’d given up arguing with Josephine when she got into these moods. The woman never stopped working, from what he had seen, and somehow expected everyone else to do the same. He turned to face Dorian, the man still looked disgruntled and he wasn’t sure what to say. “Goodnight, Dorian.”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” the mage replied.

Aldaron searched his face for a moment, looking for any indication of the man’s feelings, but Dorian just looked annoyed, and Aldaron wasn’t sure if it was at him or at Josephine. So he turned and allowed the ambassador to lead him away.

“Aldaron,” Dorian said before they had gone more than a few steps. Aldaron turned around before he could see the look of surprise on Josephine’s face at the use of his given name instead of a title. “Do remember to eat some of that,” he said, looking pointedly at the plate of food still in the elf’s hands. “And try not to work too hard. Remember you are only one person.”

Aldaron smiled softly in reply. It was very nice to have someone fret over him for a change, that’s what he had liked about Dorian from the start. And knowing now how much Dorian had to worry about already it meant all that much more. “I will,” he promised.

 

* * *

 

Josephine kept Aldaron occupied until he was quite literally nodding off at her desk. He had barely slept the night before, and two days of travel with next to no sleep was finally catching up with him. When she finally released him he staggered up to his quarters and barely managed to undress before collapsing into bed and falling asleep. As a result, the Inquisitor slept later than usual, though he usually woke as soon as the sun peeked in though the many high windows of his rooms, so that was not saying much.

As exhausted as he had been the night before, he was glad the paperwork had been dealt with then, it left him more free time today. He spent that free time checking in on the people he was coming to think of as friends more than just associates or companions in arms. They were more than happy to fill him in on the goings on and the gossip that he had missed while away with Dorian. But two days was not very long and really he had missed very little, certainly nothing important. Everything seemed to be getting along just fine without him. There were probably people who hadn’t noticed he was gone at all, or wouldn’t have except that it felt like everything he did was announced from the battlements. That was certainly something he could live without.

Aldaron was in the middle of a conversation with Solas – his latest attempt at understanding magic and the fade and this thing on his hand – when raised voices from above caught his attention. There was rarely a loud disturbance in here from anything other than Leliana’s crows, so it drew his attention immediately, Solas’ too. The voices continued to drift down into the atrium, heated and angry. “That’s Dorian,” Aldaron said, almost absently. Why was he angry? What was wrong?

“And that Chantry Mother, I believe,” Solas added. “She passed through here shortly before you arrived.”

Aldaron frowned. That was bad. It was no secret to him how much Mother Giselle distrusted Dorian. Why was she talking to him now when she wouldn’t even give Dorian his father’s letter in person? What could she possibly have to say that was more important than that? Whatever it was, Dorian sounded upset, and Aldaron felt suddenly protective. “I should go see what the problem is,” the Inquisitor said, forcing himself not to sound as agitated as he felt. He had to force himself not to run up the stairs, too, but walk at a reasonable pace, almost casual. It wouldn’t do to appear too upset about this, it could be nothing.

He saw them as soon as he could see the top of the stairs. Dorian had his back to the stairwell, but Aldaron could already see that he had his arms crossed across his chest, posture guarded and shoulders tense. He could finally make out what they were saying, but couldn’t catch enough to understand the argument.

Mother Giselle spotted him as soon as he reached the top of the stairs and cut herself off before whatever she was going to say next.

“What’s going on here?” Aldaron asked. It came out a little harsher than he had intended, a few too many emotions slipping through the Inquisitor’s careful facade. But wasn’t that always the case where Dorian was involved?

“It seems the revered mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you,” Dorian answered.

“It is just concern,” Mother Giselle interjected before Aldaron could get a word in. “Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

“You might need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian grumbled. And Aldaron was glad for it, because he wasn’t entirely certain what the revered mother was talking about.

 “This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumors alone…” the woman tried to explain, but Aldaron still didn’t fully understand.

Was that why she had a problem with him? Because Dorian was Tevinter? Aldaron barely thought about that when he was with Dorian. It didn’t seem all that important. Tevinter itself might be a wretched place (certainly seemed like it from the way people talked) but Dorian was a good man. “What’s wrong with him being from Tevinter?” he asked. “Specifically?”

“I’m fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same,” Mother Giselle began diplomatically.

“How kind of you to notice,” Dorian interrupted, clearly annoyed. “And yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses?”

“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence,” the mother said defensively. “What would you have me tell them?”

“The truth?” Dorian suggested.

“The truth is I don’t know you,” Mother Giselle replied, “And neither do they. Thus these rumors will continue.”

Rumors. Aldaron wasn’t aware of any rumors, at least not about himself and Dorian. But the revered mother had admitted herself that she did not know Dorian – probably had never tried to know Dorian – and neither did anyone else spouting what he could only assume were lies. Surely anyone who bothered to get to know Dorian would see that he was a good man. Aldaron felt irrationally annoyed, defensive even. Whatever the people were saying was wrong. It didn’t matter where Dorian came from, and Aldaron wasn’t doing anything wrong by associating with him. “The concerns of the Chantry are no concern of the Inquisition, Mother Giselle,” the Inquisitor said sternly.

“I am aware of that,” the woman assured. “You risk, however, not only the Chantry’s opinion.”

If this was a serious issue she should have brought it to him first, not ambushed and accosted Dorian here in the library. This was beginning to look more and more like an extension of some personal grudge. “And if I asked where these rumors originated?” Aldaron struggled to keep his voice level.

“I… see,” Mother Giselle backed down almost immediately. That only confirmed Aldaron’s suspicions. Had there even been any rumors to start with? Or was she just sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, as usual? “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions,” she was quick to try and placate the situation, but Aldaron did not think it sincere. “If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.” She bowed her head respectfully and took her leave. Aldaron did not trust himself to say anything civil in farewell, so he remained silent.

“Well, that’s something,” Dorian mused from his side, watching the woman walk away.

Aldaron turned to him immediately, still feeling that surge of protectiveness in his chest. “She didn’t get to you, did she?”

“No, it takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations,” the man was quick to assure him.

“Do you think she’ll do anything?” Aldaron asked. He did not know her well, nor did he know if Chantry priests had a habit of meddling in everyone else’s affairs. But if she had started any rumors, or was about to, he would rather it be dealt with now.

“Do what?” Dorian turned toward him fully, “Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers. It does make me wonder. Is my influence over you… undue?”

Undue? Aldaron wasn’t even certain what that meant. It sounded bad, though. And Dorian, while distracting, had never seemed like a bad influence. He didn’t influence the Inquisitor’s decisions any more or less than anyone else that Aldaron spent time with. “No, not undue at all.”

“Overdue, then?” Dorian asked with a small smirk that had all of Aldaron’s anger fading away in an instant to be replaced by a swarm of butterflies in his stomach. The man chuckled softly, either at his own joke or at Aldaron’s reaction he wasn’t sure. “I tease you too much, I know.”

“I… probably deserve it,” Aldaron admitted, because that seemed the least embarrassing way to say that he liked it.

“I’ll have to find something we can do that doesn’t involve teasing. Soon, preferably.” That smirk was not going away, and now Dorian’s voice was low, like it had been after they kissed in the tavern, and again it made Aldaron’s brain stop working. He wanted to kiss him again. And from the look on Dorian’s face, the man knew exactly what effect his words had on the Inquisitor. The man laughed softly and took a step back, which thankfully allowed Aldaron to try and collect himself again. “I imagine you have important Inquisitor business that I am interrupting,” he commented. Aldaron could not tell if he was bothered by that or not.

Intervening in the argument had interrupted his conversation with Solas, but that hadn’t seemed to be going anywhere to begin with. “I’m free until midday. If… you would like to do something?” he asked hesitantly, hopefully.

Dorian’s eyebrows raised and he looked at Aldaron with something akin to pleasant surprise. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“Not… particularly,” Aldaron admitted. “If you’re busy…”

“Too busy to spend time with you? Perish the thought,” Dorian smiled. “A game of cards will have to do, then. Or chess if you’d prefer?”

“I don’t know how to play either,” Aldaron replied, and felt embarrassed. He’d seen people playing cards in the tavern, been invited to a game or two by Varric or The Iron Bull, but always refused. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know how to play.

“What a terribly dull life you must have lead before this,” Dorian chuckled. “I’ll just have to teach you, then. Come, it’ll be fun.”


	9. Amulet

Days passed in Skyhold with some measure of routine. Routine was good. Aldaron liked routine. It was comfortable and predictable. And it made him feel like maybe he was getting the hang of this leadership thing. (Josephine was finally happy with his table manners and had moved on to critiquing his penmanship.)

The Inquisitor’s days were filled with meetings and paperwork and reports and plans and losing an inordinate amount of money to Dorian in a card game the man called Wicked Grace. He was terrible at cards, and only marginally better at chess. Dorian seemed to enjoy relieving him of the contents of his purse, however, and Aldaron hadn’t been planning to spend it on anything anyway, so he didn’t mind. It was also becoming easier for him to relax around Dorian and be himself. Aldaron did not stumble over his words or worry about embarrassing himself nearly as often as he used to. And it was easier to smile at Dorian’s jokes and his flirting, and attempt to flirt back on occasion. He wasn’t sure how good any of his attempts at flirting were, but Dorian didn’t seem put off, so it must not have been horrible.

“Are you certain you’re not cheating?” Aldaron asked not for the first time as Dorian happily collected his winnings for the day. Aldaron had learned not to keep too much coin on his person just to prevent himself from going completely broke. Though he imagined Dorian would give at least some of it back if that happened.

“Do you have such little faith in me, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked in reply.

“For all I know you’ve told me all the wrong rules,” Aldaron pointed out. “Maybe I do have a better hand than you. I’ve nothing but your word on the matter.”

“Well if we’re playing a game I’ve just invented I’m still better at it than you,” Dorian answered smugly.

Aldaron rolled his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. Trust Dorian to take an insult, even a teasing one, and turn it into a compliment. “We’ll have to find a game that I can actually best you at, then.”

“Oh?” the mage raised his eyebrows and smiled, intrigued. “Do you have any Dalish games you can teach me, then?”

“The Dalish don’t play cards,” Aldaron informed him. “At least, my clan didn’t.”

“No cards, no wine, no stuffy parties. Next you’ll tell me there’s not actually any dancing naked in the moonlight,” Dorian teased.

“Not in my experience,” Aldaron replied. The things that shemlen said about his people never failed to amaze him in the worst way possible. “Although I can’t speak for other clans.”

Dorian laughed, “Then there’s hope yet,” he joked. “Another round?”

Aldaron shook his head, “That was all the coin I had today.”

“A pity,” Dorian murmured. “Though we could always play for other stakes.”

“Such as?” Aldaron asked, intrigued.

“Clothing?” the mage suggested in a low voice. Immediately Aldaron’s ears burned, he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Dorian laughed again. “I’m kidding, of course,” he was quick to assure, though Aldaron thought he did sound a little insincere. And, well, it didn’t sound like too terrible an idea, except that Dorian had him at a terrible disadvantage in terms of skill and amount of clothing. Aldaron wasn’t even wearing shoes today. “Some other time, then.”

“I don’t know that I’ll have time for a game tomorrow,” Aldaron said as he rose from his chair. There was probably something he was supposed to be doing right now, but he couldn’t remember what. “Harding’s report from the Western Approach arrived this morning. It confirms that Grey Wardens are gathering there for… something. I’ll have to look into it. Most likely we’ll be heading out in a few days time.” It was a long journey, several days at best, and there was a surprising amount of planning involved. “Would you come?” he asked hesitantly.

“The last time you brought me somewhere it rained the entire time and we spent two days up to our arses in the undead,” Dorian reminded, but not unkindly. “Never did get the smell out of those robes.”

Aldaron knew how Dorian felt about camping - namely that he hated it - but he had grown rather fond of the man’s constant griping, shocking as that was. And he would be away from Skyhold for weeks. Though he would never admit it, Aldaron thought he would miss Dorian a little if he didn’t come. “I have some business in Val Royeaux, so we’ll be stopping there for a day or two. You can use some of that money I lost to buy new ones.”

Dorian did actually seem cheered up by the prospect. “Well, when you put it that way how could I possibly refuse?” he grinned. “New clothes, your charming company. Almost makes the camping worth it. Who else is coming along?”

“Hawke is already there, so of course Varric will be coming,” Aldaron said. Really it was surprising that Varric hadn’t already run off after his friend. “Blackwall wants to find out for himself what’s going on with the Wardens, but… I’m not certain it’s a good idea. If they truly are being manipulated by Corypheus then it may be dangerous. It’s likely his distance from the others that has kept him safe so far.”

“A reasonable theory,” Dorian agreed. “That seems to have been the case for Hawke’s Warden friend.”

“Do you think I should make him stay here?” Aldaron asked.

“I think that it should be your decision, Inquisitor,” Dorian replied.

Aldaron frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Was he no longer allowed to ask his friends for advice? “I’m only asking your opinion, Dorian. I know it’s my decision.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--,” Dorian cut himself off with a shake of his head that left Aldaron confused. Didn’t mean what? “I think,” he began again, “That your concern is just. If Corypheus is manipulating the Wardens then of course Blackwall would be susceptible, too. If they are all gathering in one place then it is likely that Corypheus, or someone close to him, is there to facilitate. I think… That without knowing exactly how the Wardens are being effected it’s impossible to say whether Blackwall would be a liability or not. And in that case it would be safer to make him remain in Skyhold.”

Aldaron nodded thoughtfully. “Those were my thoughts as well,” he murmured. Well, less fancy words, but the substance of it was the same. They did not know enough about Corypheus and his effect on Grey Wardens. Hawke and Stroud confirmed that he could influence their thoughts, but did not know how, exactly. Hopefully their expedition in the Western Approach would answer some of those questions. For now, however, it was probably safer for everyone (least of all Blackwall himself) to keep their Warden away from his brainwashed fellows. “Thank you,” Aldaron said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I’ll let you know when we plan to leave.”

“I am awash with anticipation,” Dorian replied sarcastically. “Don’t work too hard,” he added, far more sincerely.

“I’ll try,” Aldaron assured.

 

* * *

  
Dorian was not terribly surprised to find himself falling for the Inquisitor. It was the sort of appallingly reckless and unfortunate decision his heart had a tendency to make without consulting his mind on the matter. No, Dorian was more surprised that everyone else wasn’t also madly in love with the fool elf. And he was completely stunned that this magnificent creature might feel the same way for him.

He had expected someone devoutly religious and perhaps arrogant or pompous about it, who reveled in the attention and power given them by followers. That’s how it would have happened back in Tevinter, but the Inquisitor was none of those things. The Dalish elf vehemently denied being any sort of prophet. He did not even believe in the Maker. He deferred to the judgment of others and shied away from responsibility.

That had been endearing from the start. The Inquisitor wielded his power so very differently from everyone else in Dorian’s experience. It was a welcome change, and made it easy to pledge himself to the Inquisition’s cause. Made it easy to follow the elf out into the wilds even though he hated traveling and hated camping.

The Inquisitor bent over backwards to make everyone happy, to prove himself worthy of the lofty status to which he’d been elevated. And there was never any shortage of requests, however small and pointless, to fill the Inquisitor’s already demanding workload. Aldaron worked himself to the bone, it was a miracle that he had any time to spare for Dorian whatsoever, and yet somehow he always made time. Not a single day went by that Aldaron did not show up at Dorian’s nook in the library for something or other. Every day without fail. Regardless of the shadows under his eyes.

There were so many people asking so many things of this man that he barely had time to eat and sleep. Maybe that was why Dorian was so determined to never ask anything of him more taxing than a game of chess. And maybe that was why Dorian was so irrationally angry when Aldaron went behind his back and did him a favor anyway.

He knew the moment they approached the merchant what this was about and felt horrified and embarrassed and absolutely furious. “Is that why we’re here?” Irrational, of course. Dorian knew this wasn’t the only reason they had stopped in Val Royeaux. He’d seen the Inquisitor go off with Josephine to whatever secret meeting politics demanded, he’d been there while the elf purchased supplies for the remainder of their trip westward. Logically, he knew that this was a footnote at the end of the visit, but that did not change how he felt. He had told Aldaron he would get back his birthright amulet on his own, why wouldn’t he listen? “I said I wanted to do this myself. I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, least of all you.”

“I apologize, but that won’t be possible.” Ponchard was a horrible excuse for a man, Dorian had had nothing but misery and annoyance in his dealings with him, first selling his birthright, and then in his futile attempts to buy it back. He reminded Dorian of everything he hated about the people back home. Selfish, power-mongering brown-nosers, hiding their intentions behind a polite smile. At least Orlesians had the decency to wear a literal mask, so you know from the start how false they are. “Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your… association with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist.” Association? Dorian bristled at the term. Just how far had those rumors gotten? “It is not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence. Influence which you possess, but which the young man does not. Provided, of course, you… desire the amulet? For your friend?”

“Aren’t you a merchant? Why not just sell it back?” Aldaron asked. Dorian almost scoffed. The Inquisitor was still naïve to these sorts of politics. Had he really thought to just walk in here and unload the Inquisition’s treasuries on this man and get Dorian’s amulet back easy as that? No, that was unfair of him. Of course the elf wouldn’t understand the importance and power a stupid piece of jewelry could have. Not that emptying the Inquisition’s treasuries for Dorian’s sake would have been any better.

“I am not a fence, monsieur. I only bought your friend’s amulet because of what it is,” Ponchard explained patiently. “I do business in the Imperium. Having a birthright, even one not your own, is most useful in… select situations.”

“He’s got the right of it there,” Dorian grumbled. And it infuriated him more to know that this man would use his birthright to engage in clandestine dealings.

“That is why I gave the young man so much. If he relinquished it, how is that my doing?” the merchant asked innocently.

“You want something from me,” Aldaron said. A bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but the Inquisitor was not stupid. “What would you like?”

Even behind his mask Dorian could see the man smile. Disgusting. “The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet.”

Of course. Then he would have enough standing that he wouldn’t need the birthright. Another sniveling bottom feeder trying to pry his way into power.

“What do you think, Dorian?”

He was actually surprised when Aldaron asked his opinion. He’d been convinced that the Inquisitor was just going to plow through and give no thought to Dorian’s feelings on the matter. He looked earnest, though, like he actually did care. That didn’t change the facts of the matter, though. “Leave the man be,” Dorian said stiffly. “I got myself into this, I should get myself out of it.”

“Perhaps you should accept your friend’s help, monsieur,” Ponchard interjected, quite unwelcome.

“Kaffas!” Dorian swore, and scowled at the man. “I know what you think, and he’s not my friend, he’s…” Dorian cut himself off. He’s what? More than a friend, but what? Some flirting and a few kisses didn’t a lover make. Not that he could possibly say that here in public, regardless. The rumors were bad enough as it was. Dorian chanced a nervous glance at Aldaron and knew immediately that he had messed up and there would be no saving this. The elf’s brow was furrowed. He was angry. Hurt? “Never mind what he is,” Dorian finished curtly.

“As you desire,” Ponchard sniffed. Dorian wanted to claw that damn smirk off his smug face. “Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other.”

“Very well. I’ll do as you ask.”

“What?” Dorian couldn’t contain his shock. After all that Aldaron was still going to do this? Surely even he could see what a sniveling degenerate this man was? “You’re going to give in to this cretin?”

“Do you want your amulet back?” Aldaron demanded.

It was rare enough to see the Inquisitor angry, and it had never before been directed at Dorian. It was startling. “I… yes, I do. I simply--,” but Dorian never got a chance to try and explain himself.

“Much obliged, Your Worship,” Ponchard interrupted quite rudely, “The moment I receive an invitation from the League, I’ll have the amulet delivered.”

“Influence-mongering,” Dorian scoffed, and turned to leave. He didn’t want to stay here and listen to this any longer. But though he planned to make an escape he heard footsteps behind him. Didn’t that damn elf know when to leave well enough alone? “I don’t want to be your debt. I don’t want to be in anyone’s debt.” But especially not the Inquisitor’s.

“You don’t think…”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Dorian snapped, harsher than he meant. He saw the flash of hurt in Aldaron’s eyes before the elf sealed himself off again. He felt a resulting surge of guilt that was quickly buried and lost again under all the anger. Dorian turned on his heel and stormed away. This time he didn’t hear anyone following him.

 

* * *

Aldaron watched Dorian stalk away across the bazaar with his heart in his stomach. He was just trying to help, why was Dorian mad? The merchant had made it clear that he wouldn’t give the amulet back for any amount of coin, and he couldn’t let a man like that run around with something as important as this. Did Dorian really think that this put him in Aldaron’s debt? He had never asked anything of Dorian except to spend time with him. He would never. He was trying to help.

“You alright there, Inquisitor?” Although the others had stayed politely out of the way while Aldaron dealt with the merchant they must have overheard the whole thing. Aldaron had never intended to lose his temper, and now he was struggling to keep his composure.

“Why is he angry with me?” Aldaron asked quietly, unable to fully hide the pain in his voice even though he tried. Dorian had never been angry at him before. It hurt. What did he do wrong?

The Inquisitor felt a hand on his back and looked over to see Varric standing next to him. “Some people just don’t know how to say thank you,” the dwarf said sympathetically.

Aldaron sighed. He hoped it was that simple. Maybe he should have given Dorian some warning about what he was planning. Was that why he was angry? “I have to write a letter back to Skyhold,” he said. What the merchant wanted sounded like something Josephine or Leliana could make happen and didn’t need his direct involvement. “Then we should move out. Will you see that everyone is ready?”

“Sure thing,” Varric agreed easily. “We’ll meet you at the gates.”

Aldaron nodded his thanks and the two went their separate ways, Varric to round up the rest of their party and the Inquisitor to find a courier. He did his very best to describe the situation in the letter scribbled out, and tried to justify the Inquisition’s involvement as best he could even if he was doing this for selfish reasons. Or he had been, when he planned this and thought that Dorian would be happy about it. What a fool he’d been. When he finally arrived at the city gates his companions were already waiting for him. Dorian wouldn’t look at him, and instead attempted to strike up a conversation with The Iron Bull. Aldaron tried not to feel dejected, and certainly didn’t allow it to show, but he was upset.

Dorian did not speak to him the rest of the day. It took four full days to reach the Inquisition’s base camp in the Western Approach, and the entire time Dorian spoke to him no more than was absolutely necessary. Aldaron was miserable.

When they finally arrived at the camp, hidden from prying eyes in the desert canyons, they found the situation more complicated than reports had told. Of course it was. Not only were there Grey Wardens gathering here, but apparently Venatori as well. And reports of a dragon. Why was there always a dragon?

The trouble did serve to keep Aldaron’s mind off of his personal troubles, however. Vicious wildlife, rifts, bandits, all before they even found where Hawke and Stroud were waiting for them in the shadows of some ancient ruin. Aldaron felt the rift before he could see it, but the pain was not as sharp as he was used to, the mark did not begin to glow as it did with the other rifts they encountered. This was different. Not caused by the breach, but by blood magic. The Wardens were summoning demons and…

This was much worse than he had anticipated.

Demon armies, brainwashed Wardens; how could anyone think that this was a good idea? Were the Wardens really so scared that they would give in to this obvious plot? Or was this Magister Erimond really that persuasive?

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with you,” the magister sneered, extending a hand that burned with red light. It was the surprise more than the pain that sent Aldaron to his knees. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as when Corypheus had tried to rip the anchor from his hand. And perhaps he was getting used to the pain after all this time. “That mark you bear? The anchor that lets you pass safely through the veil? You stole that from my master. He’s been forced to seek other ways to access the fade.” Good, let him. Let him struggle and search and find nothing. Aldaron braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself up to his feet. Erimond was still talking but Aldaron was not listening. Whatever the magister was doing it pulled and pushed at the anchor the same way as a rift, so maybe he could deal with it the same way. Pushing past the pain he thrust his hand forward and was rewarded as the power of the anchor broke Erimond’s spell and sent the magister tumbling backward onto the stones.

Erimond turned and fled, Aldaron attempted to follow but the demons and the Wardens blocked his path and by the time they were dealt with the man was gone.

“Are you alright?” Dorian was at his side suddenly, face lined with real concern that startled Aldaron a little. Was Dorian not mad at him anymore?

“Yes, I’m fine,” the Inquisitor assured. He did not think he was injured.

“What was he trying to do to your hand?”

Aldaron looked down at the hand in question, turning it over to look at his palm, but the mark was inactive again, little more than a scar. “I… I’m not certain. It felt like when Corypheus tried to remove it, but not as strong.”

“Perhaps he was just trying to incapacitate you,” Dorian hummed thoughtfully and frowned down at Aldaron’ hand.

The elf felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny and quickly let his hand fall back to his side. “Obviously it didn’t work,” he commented. “I may be learning how to control it. I was able to break his spell.” He didn’t know how, though. Perhaps the mark had done that on its own.

“Fascinating,” Dorian murmured, “Although a bit concerning as well, if you think about it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

“It’s fine now,” Aldaron assured him. At least as fine as it ever was, but Dorian didn’t need to know that it ached constantly. That wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. Or ever.

“Good,” Dorian almost sounded relieved. And Aldaron was confused because the man had barely spoken to him for the past few days. “I wouldn’t want you hurt.”

Were they back to normal? Just like that? Aldaron couldn’t tell. This was the most affection Dorian ever showed in public, and Aldaron didn’t know how to ask.

“I believe I know where the Wardens are, Your Worship,” Stroud interrupted, drawing the Inquisitor’s attention. This wasn’t the time to be worrying about his personal life, Aldaron reminded himself. “Erimond fled in that direction,” he pointed, and Aldaron glanced into the distance, but there was already no sign of the magister. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress that way. Adamant.”

Of course. They had to have a command post somewhere nearby. “Good thinking,” the Inquisitor replied.

“Stroud and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there,” Hawke offered. “We’ll meet you back at Skyhold.”

Aldaron nodded and wished them luck as the two men took their leave. Then he glanced back at Dorian, who was already examining the ruins with interest. He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. There were still more important things to do. Like deal with those Venatori.

 

* * *

  
  
They were away from Skyhold for nearly three weeks. Dorian did not seem to be angry at him anymore, was back to his usual good humor, but there was no time to talk about the state of their relationship between fighting Venatori, sealing rifts, and dodging darkspawn. This left their interactions somewhat awkward because Aldaron did not know where he stood. So he didn’t flirt. He didn’t smile. He begged exhaustion at camp every night and went to sleep shortly after dinner. Avoiding the problem would not make it better, but Aldaron did not know how to broach the subject, and he didn’t want to do it while they were on the road anyway. Waiting might just make it worse, though.

Aldaron rode into the courtyard dusty and a little bit sunburned and glad to be back. If he never had to go to the desert again he would be perfectly fine with that, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

All three of his advisors appeared to welcome them back. Aldaron wasn’t surprised, though just once he would like to bathe and eat before being forced right back to work. “Is there any word from Hawke and Stroud yet?” he asked after greetings were exchanged.

“A message arrived yesterday. They have confirmed that Wardens are occupying Adamant Fortress and are on their way back to Skyhold now,” Leliana reported dutifully.

“From your reports, I don’t believe we’ll be able to reason with the Wardens,” Cullen added. “It’s likely that we will have to use force to stop them completing their plan.”

Aldaron had been afraid of that. With many of their mages and possible the Warden-Commander herself under Corypheus’ direct control it would be nigh impossible to reason with them. They wouldn’t know the full extent of the situation until Hawke returned, however. “Then we will have to attack the fortress?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. “Do we have the forces for such an assault?”

“We do,” Cullen assured him, “And we can begin planning immediately.”

“Very well,” Aldaron sighed. “Do what you can, and let me know when Hawke arrives, hopefully he’ll know what we can expect.”

“If we know what to expect, then we’ll know how to deal with it,” Cullen said confidently.

That was Aldaron’s hope. He knew nothing of war, certainly nothing of storming fortresses. It was a daunting prospect and he wouldn’t even know where to start plans for such an endeavor. For this, he would have to trust Cullen’s judgment and experience, though the Commander hadn’t given him any reason to doubt so far. “Is there anything else?”

“Inquisitor, the matter you had me look into while you were away,” Josephine said in a low voice, eyes flicking toward Dorian, who was too wrapped up in his conversation with Varric to notice, “It’s been settled. You’ll find the package on your desk.”

Aldaron’s heart leapt, and then froze for a moment as he also glanced surreptitiously at Dorian.  “Thank you,” he replied automatically.

“Of course,” Josephine nodded, “I’m certain he’ll be happy to have it back.”

“I hope so,” Aldaron murmured. He had his doubts, after the way Dorian had reacted in Val Royeaux. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and quickly made his escape. Just as promised there was a small paper wrapped package on his desk, atop the pile of reports that had stacked up while he was away but those didn’t matter now. He snatched up the package immediately and tore it open. There it was; just a stupid little trinket, a piece of jewelry really. All this trouble over a necklace.

He had it now, there was no going back. Either he gave it to Dorian or he kept it himself. Neither option sounded very good at the moment. He needed to think,

After a bath and a change of clothes Aldaron spent a long time sitting at a table in the tavern – untouched mug of beer in front of him – staring at the amulet and wondering whether he should give it to Dorian or not. Would the man still be angry? Would he even accept the amulet? He wanted the thing back, though, so wouldn’t he be happy?

Suddenly Aldaron was aware of someone sitting across from him at the table and he startled, looking up abruptly. There was Cole, ridiculous hat and all, sitting in a chair as though he had always been there and staring at the amulet with a frown. How long had he been there?

“He wants it, but he doesn’t,” the boy said suddenly, without taking his eyes off the amulet.

“What?” Aldaron asked in confusion.

“You have too many people asking you for everything under the sun, I won’t be one of them.” It was Cole’s voice, but those were Dorian’s words ringing clear in Aldaron’s mind. Exactly what he had said when Aldaron first asked him about the amulet.

Was that why Dorian was angry? He thought this was just another ‘Inquisitor favor’? “I didn’t do it because he asked,” the elf insisted. He had thought it would make Dorian happy.

“You want to help,” Cole said, and raised his eyes to look at Aldaron across the table. “Like me.”

“Yes,” Aldaron murmured. “I thought he would be happy.”

“Happy to have it back, but at what cost?” Cole asked. Something in the tone of his voice let Aldaron know he wasn’t actually asking. Cost? Then Dorian did think this was just a favor, thought that Aldaron would want something in return. But Aldaron didn’t want anything; he only wanted Dorian to be happy. Didn’t Dorian know that? Obviously not.

The Inquisitor stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor and startling the boy sitting across from him. “Thank you, Cole,” he said. If this was all just a misunderstanding then he could fix it and maybe everything would go back to normal. “I have to talk to Dorian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally just vomiting words onto paper at this point, so thanks for still reading!


	10. Amatus

 Aldaron hurried across the courtyard and up the steps to the main hall, but froze halfway up the stairs to the library. What exactly was he planning to do? Just waltz in there like nothing was wrong and hand over the amulet? ‘I got this back even though you told me not to, but I don’t expect anything in return so please don’t be mad at me’? Dorian might not even be here, it hadn’t been that long since they arrived. Well, he might as well check, and if the man wasn’t here then this would have to wait until tomorrow.

 He took a deep breath to calm his anxious heart and climbed the rest of the way up into the library. And there he was, leaning against the railing toward the center of the room and seeming to be lost in thought. Predictable, at least, in that if he wasn’t eating or sleeping or keeping himself beautiful Dorian could be found in the library. Aldaron approached slowly, clearing his throat to make himself known. It caught the man’s attention and Dorian looked over, smiling when he spotted Aldaron.

 “See if I ever let you drag me out to the desert again,” Dorian complained on sight, though the quirk of his lips meant he wasn’t too angry about it. “I’ve had sand in places that sand was never meant to be.”

 “I have something for you,” Aldaron blurted out. No need to beat around the bush, better get this over with before he lost his nerve. Dorian wasn’t angry now, but he might be in a moment.

 “Something for me?” the mage asked, “Is it a present?”

 “It’s…” Aldaron hesitated, and then just shoved his hand forward, holding out the amulet. “Here.”

 The smile faded off Dorian’s face as he saw the amulet, he stared for a moment, and then lifted it off Aldaron’s hand. “Now I’m indebted to you. I never wanted this, I told you,” he sighed, voice pained but resigned.

 “I didn’t do this so you would be indebted to me, Dorian,” Aldaron insisted, and naively thought that would solve the problem entirely. “I did this for you.”

 Dorian just sighed again, “That’s the problem.”

 Now Aldaron was confused. If Dorian wasn’t angry because he thought this was a favor, then why was he angry? Couldn’t he do something nice for someone that he cared about? Did they not do that in Tevinter? “How is that a problem?” Whatever he had done wrong he wanted to fix it, but now he had no idea where he had messed up.

 “Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It’d be foolish not to,” Dorian began pacing the small alcove as he spoke, agitated. “He can open doors for you, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say. I’m the magister who’s using you.”

 Using him? Dorian wasn’t using him at all. And if he was he was much more subtle about it than everyone else. Either way it had never occurred to Aldaron that it was something to worry about. The Inquisitor had never been concerned about the rumors, and he thought Dorian wasn’t either. Apparently he’d been wrong. “I… had no idea you were concerned about that,” he admitted. He should apologize then, but he didn’t want to. It shouldn’t matter what people said, Dorian wasn’t using him.

 “I don’t care what they say about me. I care what they say about us,” Dorian reiterated. The apology died unspoken on Aldaron’s lips. _Us_. There was an ‘us’. “I… was an ass before, with the merchant. It’s my specialty. I apologize, and thank you,” he said with a sincerity that surprised Aldaron a little, and then ducked a bow that surprised him even more, but made him smile. He had never seen Dorian bow to anyone else. This meant everything was fine between them. Dorian wasn’t angry. It was such a relief. Hesitantly, Aldaron stepped forward, closing the space between them, and leaned up, pressing his lips shyly against Dorian’s. He was not entirely certain the gesture would be welcome, but that fear vanished immediately as he felt Dorian lean into the kiss and the mage’s hands settle on his waist. Aldaron wrapped his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and pulled him closer, lips clumsy as he attempted to deepen the kiss. His efforts were rewarded with a breathy chuckle but a ready acceptance.

 “I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy,” Dorian breathed when they parted. “But I won’t forget this… And I will repay you. Count on it.” Aldaron didn’t want anything in return, though, except maybe another kiss. But Dorian was already pulling away, glancing out into the library as though checking for eavesdroppers.

 “You don’t need to repay me, Dorian,” Aldaron insisted again.

 “No, but I want to,” the man replied. “If you can do things for me without permission, then you must allow me to do the same.”

 Aldaron could not argue with that logic. “Fine,” he relented. Not that he would ever stop Dorian from doing things for him anyway. That might be a nice change from him doing things for everyone else.

 

* * *

 

Soon enough everything in Aldaron’s life went back to this new semblance of normal, with the exception that he spent a lot more time in the war room learning more than he had ever wanted to know about military tactics and troop movements and siege weapons. It came to him more easily than the politicking, however. Of course it still meant long hours hunched over tables, reading reports, signing off on requisition orders; and sleepless nights where his hand ached and his mind kept pouring over tactics and strategies until sheer exhaustion was the only thing that brought him rest.

 He had no idea war took so much effort to plan. And people went to all this trouble over petty squabbles? He would never understand humans.

 Aldaron stood at his desk, sighed, raked a hand through his hair and stared down at the pile of paperwork that awaited him. It was not encouraging. He did not enjoy reading, especially these dry reports on supply lines and training schedules.

 There was a knock on the door. He called for them to come in without really paying attention. He’d expected a servant or messenger, so he was startled when Dorian’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

 “It’s all very nice this flirting business.” Aldaron turned around quickly, it wasn’t often Dorian sought him out, but whatever pleasant greeting he’d been preparing died on his lips when he set eyes on the man. Dorian was looking at him the way a wolf eyed a lone deer. “I am, however, not a nice man. So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chit chat and more onto something more… primal.” Aldaron’s mouth went dry at the low rumble in Dorian’s voice. That wasn’t the tone he used for harmless flirting, he was dead serious. “It’ll set tongues wagging, of course. Not that they aren’t already wagging.” Aldaron couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by shock, desire, apprehension. He could only watch, heart racing, as Dorian prowled closer and circled him like a shark. “I suppose it really depends. How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?” The man’s breath against his ear, his voice low and rough, sent a shiver down Aldaron’s spine that both excited and terrified him.

 His heart was racing, he could barely think, he needed to – Aldaron took a step away from Dorian perhaps a little too quickly, “Do we need to take things this quickly?”

 “Quickly?” Dorian sounded genuinely confused. “By my standards we’ve been positively chaste.”

 “It just… seems a little sudden,” Aldaron replied meekly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. By the Creators, he _definitely_ wanted to. But he had never actually… Dorian had caught him off guard. He wasn’t emotionally prepared for this.

 “What is it you want from me exactly?” Dorian asked, brow furrowed. “A relationship?” the word slid off his tongue like poison.

 Aldaron felt his heart sink. Had he read all the signs wrong? Did Dorian really not want more than sex? “Is that such a terrible idea?” he asked, frightened of the answer he might receive. Dorian looked stunned, though, opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. “You’re speechless.” That was a bad thing; that had to be a bad thing.

 “It doesn’t happen often,” Dorian sighed and turned away from him for a moment. When he looked back his face softened and he spoke gently. “Where I come from, anything between men… it’s physical. It doesn’t go beyond that. It’s not that you don’t care, you just… don’t hope for more.”

 Now it was Aldaron’s turn to be confused. “Why wouldn’t you? What’s the worst that could happen?” He had no idea what things were like in Tevinter. Certainly the Dalish would be less than thrilled by a relationship between two men, but they were positively obsessed with reproducing. But he had never feared that his Keeper would force any couple apart that truly cared for each other. He knew that, in Dorian’s case, the man had been pressured to marry, but he was nobility and they were equally obsessed with reproducing. Aldaron had always imagined that, in another situation, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. Had he been wrong?

 “You say that like it’s a simple thing, easily imagined. I have no examples with which to compare,” Dorian protested.

 Aldaron didn’t really understand. He’d seen plenty of happy couples among his Clan, and later among the humans of the Inquisition and elsewhere. Some of them had even been two people of the same gender. For him it was easily imagined. If you cared for someone then you didn’t just sleep with them and leave. Did Dorian not understand that? Or worse, did he not want that? “So… you want to call it off?” he asked nervously, and it was hard to keep the tremor out of his voice.

 “No!” Dorian insisted immediately, “It’s just…” he sighed with exasperation, “You’re asking me to turn into a unicorn. And I don’t even know what one looks like.”

 “I’m not asking you to change,” Aldaron replied immediately. He liked Dorian just the way he was; didn’t want him any other way. He just wanted there to be more between them than flirting and sex.

 Dorian stared at him incredulously for a moment, and then seemed to deflate, shoulders slumping in resignation. “Fine, have it your way,” he grumbled, as though agreeing to some unpleasant demand. “I am, however, not leaving your quarters empty handed,” he added, a measure of his usual good humor back in his tone. “It’s a matter of pride.” Before Aldaron could ask what he meant Dorian took him by the hand and pulled him close, arm around his waist immediately as he leaned down to press their lips together. Aldaron melted into the embrace without a thought.

 

* * *

  
  
A relationship.

 Dorian had to stop midway down the stairs from the Inquisitor’s quarters and lean against the railing to laugh aloud.

 A relationship. What a novel concept. How utterly ridiculous and naïve and fantastic.

 Full of surprises, their Inquisitor was.

 When he regained his composure Dorian straightened again, but couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face or stop the fluttering of his heart. He hadn’t felt like this since he was fourteen with his first crush and too young and stupid to know any better. Apparently he was still too young and stupid to know any better. Then again, this was the barbaric south, and so many things were different here. Maybe it wasn’t such a ridiculous notion.

 But if Dorian accepted that hypothesis it left him with another dilemma. Romance. Namely: how did it work? He’d been completely honest when he said he had no examples with which to compare. People in Tevinter didn’t do romance. They did arranged marriages and casual insults and sleeping in separate rooms. But Aldaron clearly wanted romance, and Dorian didn’t exactly _not_ want romance. And that left Dorian with a problem, because he had no idea what that meant or what was expected of him.

 Oh, Maker. He had to go read every single one of Varric’s terrible novels. Right now. This very second.

 

* * *

Planning a war left little time for romance. Or anything, really. The Inquisitor took his meals in the war room and fell asleep at his desk. The soldiers were ready to move out, the supply lines secured, the siege weapons delivered. The main body of their forced was set to leave the following day at first light. The Inquisitor and his inner circle would follow two days later, able to travel at a faster pace with a smaller group, and regroup with the army at Griffon Wing Keep, from which they launch their assault on Adamant.

 Aldaron had thought of nothing else the entire day, entirely focused on double checking everything. He had never been a part of anything this big before, and he wanted to ensure that everything was as perfectly planned out as possible. Outside the windows of his quarters the sun was setting, but he barely noticed it. He barely even heard the knock on the door or the scrape of wood against stone as it swung open, but he rubbed his eyes, tired after long hours of reading, and looked up in time to see Dorian appear at the top of the stairs.

 “Why am I not surprised to find you sitting here hunched over papers? You know it’s much too late to change plans now,” the man was carrying a tray laden with plates of food and a bottle of wine. “Have you left this room at all today?”

 “I have,” Aldaron protested. He’d gone down to the war room that morning. “Since when do you deliver my meals?”

 “What? You aren’t going to thank me for such a thoughtful gesture? Marvel at how I escaped the kitchens unscathed?” Dorian asked, feigning offence. “Very well, I admit it. I intercepted the serving girl at the door. It was nothing but a happy accident, so don’t get your hopes up for a repeat performance.” He set the tray down on the small table beside the sofa and sat down, arranging himself with a casual elegance. “Come now, have you eaten anything at all today, or have you been too wrapped up in Inquisiting?”

 Aldaron was all too happy to put his work aside for a while if it promised time alone with Dorian. He regretted that he had been too busy to even hold a proper conversation with him after the last time the mage had shown up in his room. “I may have lost track of the time,” he admitted as he stood from the desk and crossed the room, stretching his back as he did and trying not to blush at the way Dorian’s eyes raked over his form.

 “It’s a good thing you have me, then,” Dorian replied. “We can’t have the Inquisitor starving to death because he was too busy to eat, can we?” He patted the spot on the sofa beside him and Aldaron happily accepted the seat, moving close enough that their thighs brushed together.

 “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you lately,” Aldaron said guiltily.

 The man merely shrugged and reached for the bottle of wine. If he was bothered at all it did not show. “It’s understandable, I assure you. Although I do rather miss watching you run about. It’s a very nice view; for me at least.” When he got the cork free of the wine bottle he sniffed at it curiously, “Oh, so there is good wine to be found here. I’ll have to dine with you more often.”

 “I certainly wouldn’t mind,” Aldaron replied. That sounded nice, actually.

 “Of course you wouldn’t,” Dorian grinned. “Who wouldn’t want to have dinner with me? I’m a delight at parties. I am, however, not terribly adept at planning thoughtful gestures, because if I had actually planned this there would be two glasses here instead of just one.”

 “We can share,” Aldaron suggested easily. “Or do without the glass entirely.”

 Dorian raised an eyebrow curiously as he looked over at him. “Is that how your people drink? Straight from the bottle like barbarians? I like it.” He gave Aldaron a cheeky grin and raised the bottle to his lips, drinking some before offering it to the elf, who accepted it and repeated the gesture. The wine was very good, but the true quality was probably lost on Aldaron. A lot of the effort that went into his meals was probably lost on Aldaron. They were very good, but he probably would have been just as happy with whatever the tavern was serving or whatever the soldiers were eating in their camp down the mountain.

 Perhaps it was finally being able to relax, or perhaps he’d had a little too much wine, but as they shared the meal Aldaron found himself leaning more and more heavily against Dorian’s side. Of course it probably didn’t help that he had to lean across the man to reach any of the food. By the time the wine was gone he was feeling pleasantly buzzed and was practically sitting in Dorian’s lap, pressed close against his side with the man’s arm around his shoulders. Stomach full and mind fuzzy he laid his head against Dorian’s shoulder and sighed happily.

 “Do you always turn into a housecat when you’re drunk, or just with me?” Dorian asked, amusement in his voice.

 “I’m not drunk,” Aldaron protested, but didn’t move. Dorian smelled nice.

 “Not yet,” Dorian chuckled. “I could call for more wine, if you like.”

 Aldaron shook his head as best he could with his cheek pressed against Dorian’s shoulder. He was happy like this; tipsy enough that he wasn’t shy but still sober enough to think clearly. After a moment he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. He felt the man’s lips quirk into a smile under his, then Dorian turned his head just enough to kiss him properly. Aldaron kissed him back eagerly, with none of the hesitation that usually hindered him, shifting on the sofa to try and find a more comfortable position. Dorian caught on to his intentions quickly and turned, a hand on Aldaron’s waist and another on his thigh as he eased him back against the arm of the sofa. They settled there comfortably, Aldaron resting back against the plush fabric and Dorian poised above him, one knee carefully settled between the elf’s legs.

 “Where exactly are we going with this, amatus?” Dorian breathed, peppering kisses along the elf’s jaw.

 It didn’t escape Aldaron’s notice that it had only been a few days since he had turned down Dorian’s attentions. That hadn’t been for a lack of desire on his part, only a lack of preparedness. “I… don’t know,” Aldaron admitted softly. He didn’t want to admit that he was a little bit nervous. He looked away but Dorian wasn’t paying attention to his face anyway, his lips had moved down to Aldaron’s neck. “I’ve never actually…” he trailed off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

 The reaction was immediate. Dorian stilled, then drew back, looking down at him though Aldaron could not meet his eyes. “Is that all?” he asked. “Amatus-” Aldaron didn’t know what that meant but he liked the way Dorian said it. Shyly he looked back at the man. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

 Aldaron believed him. “I don’t know what I want,” he said quietly. He wanted to be close to Dorian, to hold him, kiss him. Beyond that he wasn’t so certain. He knew in theory how sex worked even if he’d never had the opportunity to put it into practice. Dorian obviously had a lot of practice, and that was simultaneously comforting and nerve-wracking.

 “Do you want me to stop?” Dorian asked.

 “No,” Aldaron replied.

 A smile quirked at the corner of Dorian’s lips. “Good,” he breathed, “Let’s move this somewhere more comfortable, then.”

 Aldaron nodded mutely and watched as Dorian climbed off the sofa. He took Aldaron’s hands and pulled the elf to his feet as well. Then Dorian’s mouth was on his again, hands on his waist and pushing him gently back toward the bed. As if of their own volition his hands moved around Dorian’s shoulders and pulled him closer. The back of his legs met the side of the bed and Aldaron fell back onto it, pulling Dorian down with him. He was nervous, heart thundering in his chest, but he didn’t want to be parted from the man.

 The pair scrabbled further up the bed, lips barely parting until Aldaron was resting against the pillows. Then Dorian’s hands were running up his sides, undoing the clasps on his shirt, mouth on his jaw and his neck. Aldaron let his head fall back, body arching unconsciously into every touch.

 Dorian had gotten his shirt completely open before Aldaron even realized it was happening and slipped his hands inside the fabric to caress the elf’s chest, ribs, stomach, hips, anything they could reach. Aldaron squirmed under the attention, let out a sigh of pleasure when fingertips ran lightly over a particularly sensitive spot. Emboldened somewhat by the wine and by Dorian’s easy acceptance of his innocence in these matters, Aldaron tried removing the mage’s clothes, only to be thwarted by layers of fabric and unfamiliar clasps. “How do your clothes even work?” he asked breathlessly, tugging futilely on a leather strap.

 Dorian laughed lightly as he pulled away enough to look down at Aldaron’s hands. “The great Inquisitor foiled by buckles?” he teased, but sat back on his heels and began stripping off the layers of his robes.  Aldaron propped himself up on his elbows to watch. “Enjoying the show?” the mage asked when he noticed. 

 “Immensely,” Aldaron replied, and then blushed all the way up to the tips of his ears when he realized what he just said. The filter between his brain and his mouth never seemed to work when he was with Dorian, and now it was gone entirely. Luckily the mage seemed to think it was charming, or at least amusing. He laughed again and shucked his shirt off onto the floor before leaning down to kiss Aldaron again. The elf returned the gesture readily, shrugging off his shirt as well. Arms free at last, Aldaron reached out for Dorian. His hands lingered on the man’s sides, on his shoulders. Dorian was not really a large man – not when compared to soldiers at least – but he was larger than Aldaron. Wider, more muscular. Aldaron knew he was physically stronger than the mage, but he certainly did not look it. Dorian was built very differently from an elf. Aldaron liked it. Liked that he could feel the flex of the man’s muscles as he ran his hands over his chest, liked the scratch of facial hair against his skin.

 Well it wasn’t the most surprising development in his life. In fact, in the midst of everything else falling for Dorian felt refreshingly normal.

 “What are you thinking about so intently up there?” Dorian’s voice startled Aldaron out of his thoughts and he looked down to where the man was poised over his chest.

 “You,” Aldaron replied honestly.

 Dorian let out a bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose I can’t complain about that,” he commented, “But if you can think at all I must not be doing a good enough job.”

 “Then by all means,” Aldaron invited, though he felt his face heat up again.

 “First we’ll have to get rid of these,” Dorian said, and crawled down the bed to start unlacing Aldaron’s boots. The elf leaned forward to help, quickly untying one while Dorian worked on the other. When it was loose enough he kicked the boot off the end of the bed where it landed on the floor with a thunk. “Goodness,” Dorian smirked as he pulled off the other boot and tossed it off with its partner, “Someone is impatient.”

 “I don’t like shoes,” Aldaron replied, though it would be a lie to say that was the only reason he wanted them off.

 “I have noticed your penchant for barefootedness,” Dorian mused, “Is that an elf thing?”

 “If you’re really interested I’ll tell you all about it, later,” Aldaron said, “You promised to make me stop thinking.” And he was curious, though apprehensive, to see what the man intended.

 “That I did,” Dorian agreed. His hands went immediately to the waist of Aldaron’s breeches and began undoing the ties that held them on. “These will have to go as well.”

 Aldaron felt suddenly a little frightened, but he pushed it down as he lifted his hips to help wriggle out of his pants when Dorian had the ties loose. Still, he felt embarrassingly exposed as the fabric slipped down over his hips. He opened his mouth to say something but never got the chance. His pants were gone and Dorian’s head was between his legs and the only sound that escaped his lips was a surprised moan. This was unexpected. But good. Very good. His hands twisted in the sheets below him while Dorian’s mouth and hands continued to work absolute wonders. It was getting very difficult to think straight. At least it was difficult to think about anything other than what Dorian was doing with his tongue. Aldaron bit his lip and tried to choke back a moan that forced itself out as a low whine. He felt more than heard Dorian’s soft laughter against his hip. It made him squirm in embarrassment. Dorian’s hands settled on his thighs, pressing them apart and holding him down, took the elf deeper into his mouth. Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut, gasped, arched into the sensations. He tried to stay quiet but was doing a really terrible job of it. Every touch, every kiss, every swipe of tongue sent lightning down his spine, coiling tight and hot in his stomach until he could not contain it any longer. Head thrown back against the pillows he moaned as the release washed over him. It left him feeling momentarily dazed, flushed and panting and more relaxed than he had been in months.

 Soft kisses against his cheek roused Aldaron back to the present. He opened his eyes to find Dorian smiling down at him, hair mussed though Aldaron couldn’t remember touching it. “Did you stop thinking?” he asked cheekily.

 “I may never think again,” Aldaron replied, mind still clouded in a haze of pleasure. Dorian grinned and kissed him again. The elf looped his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and kissed back, sloppy but no less enthusiastic. But as his thoughts began to clear again Aldaron realized Dorian was probably expecting some sort of reciprocation. Nothing he could do would be as good as that, though, Aldaron was certain. He let his hands trail down Dorian’s chest, not entirely able to stop the way they trembled a little upon reaching the waist of the man’s breeches. “What about you?” he breathed when their lips parted.

 “Is that what you want?” Dorian asked in reply. But he was breathless and his face was flushed. Aldaron could tell it was what Dorian wanted.

 The elf nodded mutely. Hesitant though he was, he did want to do… something. He just didn’t want it to be disappointing.

 “Very well,” Dorian rolled over, flopping onto his back and pulling Aldaron half on top of him. “Have your way with me.”

 Arms braced on either side of the man Aldaron stared down at him, drinking in the sight of Dorian splayed out invitingly across his sheets but also uncertain where to begin. “What do I...?”

 “Whatever you like,” Dorian replied. When Aldaron only continued to stare though he propped himself up on his elbows, “What are you so afraid of? I won’t bite. Unless you’d like that.” Still no reply, because Aldaron didn’t know what he was afraid of. Not being good enough? Dorian hadn’t seemed to mind his inexperience so far. “Amatus, talk to me.”

 He sounded worried now, and Aldaron looked away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I thought…” Thought he was ready for this. He wanted it, but as soon as the opportunity was presented he froze up. It had been fine at first, with the buzz of the wine and Dorian taking the lead, but sober now and with all the initiative placed on him it was not so easy.

 “Come here,” Dorian murmured and pulled Aldaron down against his chest, but only for a hug. Aldaron tensed for a moment, and then relaxed against him. “I said I won’t do anything you don’t want. If you don’t want to have your way with me then,” he paused and gave a long suffering sigh, “Somehow I’ll persevere.”

 “You’re sure?” Aldaron asked. It felt selfish only to take and not to give. It wasn’t fair to Dorian.

 The man shrugged with the shoulder Aldaron wasn’t laying on. “It’s hardly the first time, I assure you. And you’re not throwing me out immediately, so that actually puts you rather high up the list in my opinion.”

 “I wouldn’t throw you out,” Aldaron promised. “You can stay as long as you like.”

 “As long as I like?” Dorian asked curiously.

 Aldaron nodded slightly without lifting his head from Dorian’s shoulder. “All night, even.”

 “That’s not an offer to make lightly,” Dorian protested weakly.

 “I’m not making it lightly,” Aldaron murmured. Did Dorian think he would throw him out? Perhaps that was what he was used to. Aldaron wouldn’t stop him if that was what Dorian wanted, but just laying here like this, pressed up against the man he – love was too strong a word just yet – he didn’t want this to end any time soon.

 Dorian let out a breathy laugh, a shallow attempt at his usual bravado. “I don’t think you really know what you’re asking.”

 “I want you to stay, Dorian,” Aldaron raised his head to look at Dorian properly and found the man’s expression unusually vulnerable.

 “Very well,” the man sighed, “How could I refuse those puppy dog eyes?” Aldaron smiled happily and kissed him softly. “But at least let me get out of these clothes, they’re really not intended for sleeping in.”

 Aldaron reluctantly released Dorian so he could climb off the bed and crawled under the sheets, watching shyly as Dorian stripped down to his smallclothes. Only after folding his clothes carefully and leaving them in a neat stack on the sofa did he return to the bed and slide under the covers. Aldaron rolled over to face him and draped an arm over Dorian’s waist. This was good. Just being close to him. This was nice. “Good night, Dorian,” he whispered.

 “Good night, amatus.” He still doesn’t know what that word means but it makes him smile as his eyes drift closed.

 


	11. Adamant

Dorian had never woken up beside someone before. At least not without a mounting sense of panic and scrambling to get dressed and get out before anyone noticed he was still there. Spending the night was not something that was done in Tevinter, especially not between two men. Spending the night implied a level of intimacy and certain emotions that the people there did not approve of. Even married couples rarely shared the same bed longer than necessary.

There was a momentary panic when Dorian woke and realized he was not in his own room. When he realized he was still in the Inquisitor’s quarters, in the Inquisitor’s bed, and that the sun was just beginning to rise. He sat up, instinctively moving to get out before anyone noticed. The weight of an arm slung carelessly across his waist stopped him before he so much as pushed the covers back. He stopped and he looked down at the man beside him.

Aldaron was curled up on his side, one arm flung across Dorian’s body and the other tucked up against his chest. His hair was an even worse mess than usual, his face half buried in a pillow but lips parted slightly as he slept. He looked absolutely content. Unable to help himself, Dorian reached out and carefully brushed a lock of hair off the elf’s face to better see what he looked like without those perpetual lines of worry and fear that usually lined his features. Perfect, gorgeous. The light touch was enough to make him stir slightly. A light sleeper. Dorian pulled his hand away immediately, but it was too late. He turned his head away from the pillow and those dark eyes fluttered open, blinked slowly. “Dorian?” his voice was rough with sleep and soft, barely more than a whisper.

“Go back to sleep, amatus,” Dorian replied softly. It was still early, and the Maker knew Aldaron did not get enough sleep as it was.

Aldaron turned a bit more, took the hand away from Dorian’s waist to rub the sleep from his eyes. Dorian felt the loss more keenly than he was willing to admit. “Are you leaving?” the elf asked, looking up at him. Dorian had no answer. He had been, for a moment, but now he was not certain. It was harder now that Aldaron was looking at him with those puppy dog eyes. When Dorian did not answer the elf reached out to him again, laying his hand on Dorian’s arm. “Stay. Please.”

Why did he have to make this so difficult? “It’s still early enough I can make it back to my room and change clothes before anyone is awake to notice me leaving your quarters in the same thing I wore yesterday,” Dorian tried to explain, though he doubted Aldaron would understand. Aldaron had never understood. But he also never heard the things people said about the evil Tevinter magister and how he was corrupting their pure Herald of Andraste.

“Oh,” was all that Aldaron said in reply, let his hand fall away from Dorian’s arm.

“It’s better they don’t have any more fuel for their gossip,” he tried to explain. It was Aldaron’s reputation he was thinking about. Just because people were more willing to tolerate relationships between two men down here didn’t mean they would tolerate it in someone of the Inquisitor’s standing. Or with someone like Dorian. And if he was honest with himself, Dorian was also trying to protect what little reputation he had left. He didn’t know how the masses would react and he wasn’t in any hurry to find out.

“You didn’t seem bothered by that a few days ago,” Aldaron murmured and sat up slowly.

He had said something rather flippant about it, hadn’t he? “That was… before,” Dorian tried to explain. When he’d thought this would be just a bit of fun on the side, maybe only a one-time thing. Easy to brush off any scornful rumors when there wasn’t any emotion vested in it. It wasn’t like that anymore.

Aldaron sighed softly and looked down at his lap where his hands were twisted in the sheets. “If that’s what you want,” he said softly, “I won’t stop you.”

The words twisted like a knife in Dorian’s heart. He felt terrible running off like this. It was odd, he’d never felt bad about it before, but no one had ever asked him to stay before. Regardless of his feelings, though, a lifetime of experience told him this was the proper course of action. “It’s better like this,” he tried to sound reassuring, leaned over to kiss Aldaron on the cheek. “Besides, I’m certain you have a mountain of reports to read, and I would only be in the way if I stayed here.” He climbed out of bed before Aldaron could do anything further to weaken his resolve. “How about this,” he suggested as he dressed, trying to brighten the mood a little. “I join you for dinner again tonight, but this time it really is my idea and there are two glasses for the wine?”

He turned in time to see the smile quirk one side of Aldaron’s mouth. “That sounds nice,” the elf replied.

“Good,” Dorian felt surprisingly relieved to see that smile. He didn’t want to dwell on the feeling too much, however, and busied himself with pulling on his boots. “Then I’ll see you this evening.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Aldaron said. He sounded for all the world like he meant it. He probably did, Dorian realized with a little shock. Imagine that.

Fully dressed, Dorian took a moment to tame his hair and mustache back into place before saying his farewells and stealing one last kiss before fleeing down the stairs. He hoped he hadn’t lingered too long, but thankfully the main hall was devoid of activity when he peeked out the door and he was able to slip out of the Inquisitor’s quarters unnoticed. That was the most important, that no one see him coming from there. If anyone saw him later – and it was inevitable that he passed a couple people on the way back to his room – they would draw their own conclusions, he was certain. But as long as no one actually saw him leave the Inquisitor’s rooms in the small hours of the morning he could deny all of it. And that was something he had a lot of practice with.

When evening rolled around Dorian made his way down to the kitchens. He did not have Aldaron’s skill in pilfering delicacies out from under the cook’s nose, but through wit and charm and a handful of clever lies managed to procure the desired meal and even a kitchen maid to help him deliver it.

Unsurprisingly, arriving at the Inquisitor’s quarters found the elf hunched over the desk in the corner of the room, papers littering the surface. Running a semi-religious international political organization certainly seemed to involve a lot of paperwork. Dorian wasn’t all that surprised. He’d seen the amount of paper that crossed a magister’s desk, and the Inquisitor certainly had a wider scope of influence and responsibility. Dorian did not envy him. Aldaron looked up from his papers with tired eyes and a dour expression that brightened the moment he saw Dorian.

“Is it that late already?” the Inquisitor asked.

“You’re really quite terrible at keeping track of time, aren’t you?” Dorian asked in reply. He set down what he was carrying, waited for the kitchen maid to set down her burden as well, and then waved her off.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” Aldaron said.

Dorian smiled and purposefully needled him. “Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?”

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes as he set his papers aside and rose from his desk. “You’re impossible sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Dorian grinned. “I must try harder. Come. Sit, eat. Tell me all about your Inquisiting.”

And Aldaron did, joining Dorian on the sofa with an exhausted sigh and gratefully accepting the offered glass of wine. His day had been long and boring, so they ended up speaking about other more interesting and less serious things.

“May I ask you something?” Dorian queried when they were halfway through a bottle of wine and Aldaron was just beginning his housecat impression.

“You ask me lots of things without permission,” the elf replied.

“I suppose I do,” Dorian admitted. For some reason he felt the need to ask permission for this subject. He expected it to be rather touchy. “Well, you don’t have to answer, but I was wondering… You always speak as though you hate your position, being Herald or Inquisitor and all that. So I’m curious, why did you accept? You could have turned down the position, I imagine. Might have been awkward, but I doubt anyone would stop you from leaving if you’d wanted.”

Aldaron did not answer right away. He stared down at the half-empty wine glass in his hand and frowned. “I don’t think I could,” he said eventually. “I couldn’t walk away. I’m the only person who can close the rifts.”

“Very well,” Dorian granted. He doubted he would be able to walk away if that were the case, either. “The position, though – Inquisitor – you could have refused?”

Aldaron took a sip of wine and shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he said again. “You didn’t see… Well, maybe you did… The way people look at me and talk to me, like they think I’m perfect. I tried not being the Herald of Andraste,” he said, and made a face as he said the title. “They wouldn’t let me. Everyone thinks I can do anything; save the world and all that. And maybe I can, I don’t know, but… I want to try. This… This isn’t a problem I could walk away from, even without this thing,” he glanced down at his hand. The anchor doesn’t look like much when it’s not closing rifts, an old scar maybe. “If there’s anything I could do to make things right again, I want to do it. I’ve just… never had this much responsibility before.”

Dorian thought he understood. Aldaron was doing what he thought was right, what he thought needed to be done to bring peace and stability back to the world, his personal feelings aside. The people wanted to follow him, so he would lead. “Well I think you’re handling it magnificently,” Dorian said honestly, but also in an attempt to lighten the mood. He’d known it was a serious topic, but hadn’t intended to make everything so melodramatic.

Aldaron smiled the tiniest bit. “Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t quite sound like he believed it.

“You never talk much about before,” Dorian tried to change the subject to something a little more cheerful. “What were you before you were the Herald of Andraste?”

“I was a hunter,” Aldaron replied. Dorian wasn’t at all surprised to hear it. The words flowed easily between them after that. The reminisced and spoke of everything and nothing, sat too close together, but Dorian did not press to move their activities beyond talking and kissing. Aldaron wanted slow, and Dorian didn’t know how that worked but he was trying. He refused the offer to stay the night.

Two days later they departed Skyhold and all thoughts of romance had to be set aside.

 

* * *

 

Aldaron was pacing. He walked from one end of the rampart to the other, turned on the ball of his foot and walked back. He was restless, jumpy. Only one day. Less than one day, only a matter of hours before they launched the assault on Adamant Fortress. He was nervous, frightened.

“Please stop pacing, it’s incredibly distracting,” Dorian complained from where he was leaning against the stone wall nearby, backlit by the sun setting red over the desert. He was reading a book, and Aldaron wasn’t sure where it had come from. “Also exhausting just to watch.”

The man had showed up not long after Aldaron had climbed to the wall top in search of some privacy and open air. He felt confined in the fortress, especially when it was so crowded with people and supplies that he felt he could barely move. They were not totally alone up here, his pacing was occasionally interrupted by the soldiers on patrol, but at least he could feel the wind. Dorian – and this was quickly becoming predictable – knew exactly where to find him when he was being elusive.

“Sorry,” Aldaron said, and forced himself to come to a stop a few paces from the man. “I’m just nervous.” What the mage was doing here Aldaron wasn’t certain. Watching him pace, obviously, but surely there was somewhere else he could be if it was annoying? Varric probably had a game of Wicked Grace going somewhere. Surely that would be better company than he was at the moment.

“I can tell,” Dorian replied without looking up from his book. “Do you want to tell me the plan again? Would that make you feel better?”

He’d already told Dorian a half dozen times, been over it with his advisors at least twice that many trying to find any holes or loose ends. But it was solid. As solid as it could be, at least. Still, Aldaron began talking anyway, if only to keep himself from pacing again. “Cullen’s troops will breach the walls, get us a way in and try to keep the bulk of the Warden forces occupied so we can find Warden-Commander Clarel. With me will be Stroud, Blackwall, Cole, and—,”

“Me,” Dorian interrupted.

“You,” Aldaron confirmed, looking up at him. “I’m hoping we can talk the Wardens into standing down, and they may be more willing to listen to one of their own. Cole has been to Adamant before; his knowledge of the fortress could be useful. And if they’ve already begun summoning demons then we’ll need a good mage to help deal with them.”

“And I am a very good mage,” Dorian said confidently. “It’s a good plan, very well thought out. The Commander knows what he’s doing; you have nothing to be worried about.”

“There are a hundred things that could go wrong,” Aldaron protested.

“And a hundred things that could go right,” Dorian replied. “And no way to know either way until they happen.” That was true, Aldaron nodded slowly, but not particularly comforting. “So there’s no point in worrying until then.”

“I can’t help it,” Aldaron sighed. His mind had been occupied by this for days, it would be impossible to stop thinking about it until he matter was dealt with.

“You need a distraction,” Dorian interrupted his thoughts.

Which was what Dorian had provided him with plenty of times before. “Do you have any suggestions?” Aldaron asked.

“The way I see it we have two options,” Dorian began, “Either I begin reading aloud from this frighteningly awful book, which will likely bore you to sleep, or we go see what this place is trying to pass off as food.”

“Are books and food the only things you think about?” Aldaron asked.

Dorian pretended to be offended, “I’ll have you know I spend a great deal of time thinking about how incredibly handsome I am,” he replied, “And nearly as much time thinking of how good your ass looks in those pants.” Which made Aldaron blush and shift self-consciously. “But obviously my stunning good looks haven’t served to distract you yet, so we must consider other options.”

Eating was probably a good idea. He shouldn’t go into battle on an empty stomach and the morning might leave him too nervous to keep anything down. He might not be able to keep anything down tonight, for that matter. This was the most nervous he remembered being in his entire life. No, that wasn’t true. He’d been this nervous before closing the breach, but he’d been nauseous then too. “I should probably eat,” he said absently.

“Good choice,” Dorian closed his book with a snap. “Well, I may think differently once I see what sort of unidentifiable slop they’re claiming is edible.”

“It’s not that bad,” Aldaron protested. Tasteless and unidentifiable, yes, but when cooking to feed an entire army it was quantity over quality.

“Do you southerners have any sense of taste? Or has it been lost along with your ability to feel cold?” Dorian asked, beginning to lead the way back down into the keep. Aldaron took one last breath of fresh air before following him.

Predictably, Dorian complained about the food when they got it, tried to sweet talk the cook into giving them something better, failed, and ate everything he was served anyway. By the time they finished eating activity in the keep was winding down for the night. Dorian walked with the Inquisitor back to his tent and glanced around hesitantly before stealing a very quick kiss. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m certain everything will go exactly according to plan.” Aldaron wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He hoped not. Dorian was leaving before he had a chance to reply. Despite his offers the man had doggedly refused to spend the night with him since their first and only time and Aldaron didn’t know why. He had seemed uncomfortable the morning after, was that the problem? Was he uncomfortable sharing a bed with anyone? Or was it only a problem with Aldaron?

The Inquisitor shook his head and slipped into his tent to try and get some sleep. That was a problem to worry about when all this was over.

 

* * *

 

The fortress was crawling with demons. They had begun the ritual already. It was too late to save the Warden mages who had already been bound, but perhaps they could prevent any more from completing the ritual. That was what drove Aldaron forward, what kept him shouting, begging the Wardens to stand down even though so few of them listened. There was no easy way through the fortress. They followed whatever path was open to them past barred doors and collapsed halls. The winding route led the Inquisitor and his companions up across battlements and through abandoned fortifications. There were demons around every corner, Wardens and Inquisition soldiers wherever he looked. They found Hawke holding back a pack of demons almost single-handedly and complaining loudly to nobody in particular about blood magic. When the area was clear enough for Inquisition soldiers to move in the Champion fell in with them. Aldaron would not protest the extra support. The whole situation was as bad as his worst expectations.

Aldaron was breathing heavily by the time they finally found their way to the inner courtyard. His hand had been aching and tingling all day and it was getting worse. He knew why, of course, and when they burst into the courtyard he was not at all surprised to see the ethereal green glow of a rift lighting up the area.

There, at the top of the stairs at the far end of the courtyard stood the Warden-Commander, beside her the magister that had fled them in the Western Approach – Erimond. They arrived just in time to watch Clarel draw a knife across the throat of one of her soldiers, too late to do anything to stop it. A stupid waste of life. But they could still stop the ritual. Aldaron leapt forward, shouted, heedless of the obvious danger he was putting himself in but desperate to stop this before it got worse. “If you complete that ritual you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants!”

They had their excuses, their reasoning. Aldaron wasn’t listening. Nothing was worth what this was doing to the Wardens, what this would do to the world. Let them make their excuses, let them argue, none of it mattered in the end. “You’re being used,” he bit out in frustration. “And some of you know that, don’t you?” And they did, at least some of them did, and the others were beginning to doubt. He could see Clarel hesitate to complete the ritual, to summon whatever demon was waiting on the other side of that rift.

Erimond, however, had other ideas. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor!” the magister called down to him, “He sent me this to welcome you!”

The last of his words were almost cut off by the screech of a dragon. Aldaron’s heart stopped for the briefest of moments as he turned panicked eyes to the sky. He remembered that sound. Coryhpeus’ pet dragon or archdemon or whatever it was. It came into sight over the walls and Aldaron barely had time to leap for cover as it sent fire and rubble raining down over the courtyard.

He scrabbled to his feet as the dragon perched itself on a ruined tower almost tauntingly and gripped his daggers tight, wracking his brain for what to do. This was not something they had planned for. In the future he would always plan for dragons. Distracted as he was by the dragon Aldaron did not see what transpired between Erimond and Clarel. He heard the magister cry out in alarm and looked over only in time to see the man run away and hear Clarel’s shouted order of “Help the Inquisitor!”

Having the Wardens on their side was of little comfort when faced with an army of demons and brainwashed mages and an archdemon looming in the sky. The courtyard seemed to explode into chaos the moment that Erimond fled. Aldaron moved on instinct alone, cutting his way through demons and Wardens alike. “We have to get to Erimond!” he shouted back to his companions. The magister had just pulled an archdemon out of nowhere, who knew what other tricks he had up his sleeve.

Cole was the first one at his side, “Clarel is hurting – we have to help her,” he said.

“She went after Erimond. Do you know where they are?” Aldaron asked.

“That way,” Cole pointed. Aldaron barely spared a glance to make sure the others were following before he took off running. Above them the dragon screeched and circled, roared down blasts of flame that had Aldaron ducking behind columns and casting fearful looks at his companions to ensure that they were still safe. A little singed around the edges – Dorian’s hair was ruffled; Blackwall’s shield had more scorch marks than paint – but otherwise fine.

They finally caught up to Clarel and Erimond where ruined bridge cut off the magister’s escape. Aldaron was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the Warden-Commander advanced with a deadly intent, flinging spells at the man with enough force to send him to the ground. Aldaron leapt forward to intervene before she could kill him – the magister had to have information they could use, knowledge of Corypheus’ plans – but the screech of a dragon, the sound of leathery wings, that shadow that fell over them froze him in place. And then he could only watch as Clarel was picked up and flung about like a rag doll before being dropped again in a bloody heap on the stones before them. And then the dragon turned its attention on the Inquisitor and his companions. And it was between them and the only route of escape. Aldaron backed away instinctively, panic rising up in his chest as he stared down the dragon – archdemon, whatever it was – once again. His mind flashed back to Haven, and that terrifying night and he felt just as terrified and just as helpless as he had then. A dragon. How do you kill a dragon?

Movement caught his eye and somehow Aldaron managed to tear his gaze away from the massive creature to look beneath its feet. Clarel was alive. Somehow. Barely. As Aldaron watched the Warden-Commander raised her hand and with what was very likely the absolute last of her strength sent a bolt of lightning shooting up into the dragon. The creature screamed in pain and lurched forward. Aldaron threw himself to the side, barely getting out of the way before the massive creature hit the stones where he had been standing. The dragon roared furiously as it scrabbled forward, away from its attacker, and off the edge of the broken bridge. Its impact had weakened the structure, though. The stones were crumbling under Aldaron’s feet as he rose again. The whole thing was going down, they had to get out of here. He glanced around in a panic, but everyone else seemed to have realized the same thing and was fleeing back toward the fortress. Aldaron followed, making certain to keep his companions in front of him where he could see them. A rock gave way beneath his foot and he stumbled, reached out a hand to steady himself but there was nothing there to hold onto. He was falling. Panic seized him, clutched at his heart like a fist, sent his stomach into his throat. The ground loomed up below him and he threw his hands out instinctively for all the good it would do.

There was a stabbing pain in his hand, like closing a rift, but there was no rift to close. Then the only thing he could see was green light.

He was falling, falling.

Not falling.

And the ground was above him? And then not as he hit it hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Confused and scared and aching Aldaron staggered to his feet and looked around. This was not Adamant. That much was obvious from the first glance. There was no sign of the fortress and everything had a green tint to it, like looking through stained glass. What had happened? Where was he?

“Where are we?”

The voice came from above him. Aldaron turned to look and nearly fell over again because Stroud was standing on a wall, on the side of a wall.

“We were falling…”

He spun around to face the next voice only to find that Hawke was upside down. This was impossible. What was going on?

“No, no no no no,” Cole’s terrified voice broke through Aldaron’s own confused and panicked thoughts, drawing his attention to the boy, who was at least standing on solid ground. “This is the Fade. But I’m stuck. I can’t… Why can’t I…?” The Fade? Then Aldaron had opened a rift. The green light, the pain in his hand, he had controlled the anchor, though unconsciously. But there was no sign of the way they had come through, and he couldn’t remember how he’d opened the rift that got them here. “This place is wrong,” Cole continued, his voice still lined with fear. “I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn’t like this.”

“This isn’t how I remember the Fade, either,” Hawke added.

“The first time I entered the Fade it looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks,” Dorian interjected, entirely too cheerful for the current situation. “I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me.” Aldaron startled and stared at him in muted horror that Dorian could talk about nearly being possessed as though it were a fond memory. “Perhaps the difference is that we’re here physically. This is no ones dream.”

That actually made sense. Aldaron had always thought of the fade as an illusion, because the was how everyone else experienced it. But there were holes in the sky letting demons out so the Fade had to be a physical place.

“The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven,” Hawke said, and turned to face him, but the man was still upside down and it was incredibly unnerving. “Was it like this?”

Aldaron raked his brain for any memory of the conclave and what had happened to him there, but he could recall nothing. He wasn’t even certain he had walked out of the Fade like everyone said. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I still can’t remember what happened then.”

“Well, whatever happened at Haven, we can’t assume we’re safe now,” Hawke shrugged. Aldaron wished he could be of more help. “That huge demon was right on the other side of that rift Erimond was using, and there could be others.” The demon that Clarel had been summoning, halfway through the ritual when they interrupted, but still stuck on this side of the rift.

“In our world the rift the demons came through was nearby, in the main hall. Can we escape the same way?” Blackwall suggested.

It seemed the only choice unless Aldaron could figure out how to open a rift again, if it was even possible to open one from this side. He glanced down at his hand but the anchor was once again inactive. “It seems like our best option,” the Inquisitor said, and turned his gaze toward the sky. He could see the rift in the distance, swirling in the dark sky like the breach in their own world. “There. Let’s go.”


	12. Fear

Aldaron wasn’t sure what he had expected the Fade to be like, but it probably wasn’t this. And he certainly hadn’t expected to find the Divine there. No, not the Divine, she was dead, but a spirit that had taken her form? Like Cole? Aldaron didn’t understand what she was, nor did it matter to him as long as she continued helping them.

It was actually a relief to learn that he had not been sent by Andraste or the Maker or even one of his own gods. He’d done this by himself, to himself. The thought was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. Perhaps part of him had wanted to believe that there was some higher purpose behind everything that had happened to him since the conclave. But no, it had all been nothing but terribly bad luck.

Any sort of comfort he felt, though, was dampened by the gravity and horror of the current situation. For all intents and purposes they were trapped. Trapped in the Fade and at the mercy of an incredibly powerful demon.

The only thing that Aldaron could hope for was that he wouldn’t remember most of this later, but he knew that was unlikely. This was not the sort of experience that memory blurred in time. Aldaron would not be that lucky. He kept going by not thinking about where they were, or what was happening, or anything really. Cole’s fear was palpable and he wondered how this must feel to someone like him. Not quite human and not quite spirit but something in between. Aldaron could only imagine that the fear, the wrongness of this place and everything in it, were worse for him than it was for any of the others. For that reason Aldaron could not let his own panic consume him. He had to stay strong and get Cole and Dorian and all of them out of here. He pushed the fear down, pushed all his emotions aside, though it was harder now than it had ever been before, and thought of nothing except getting out of here. If he faltered for one moment he would break and he would not be able to continue.

The demon, the Nightmare, taunted them constantly, and no matter how hard he tried Aldaron kept hearing the same words over and over in his head.

“Some foolish little boy come to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You think that pain will make you stronger? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is me.”

And it was true, wasn’t it? He was just a foolish little boy. Walking through life pretending that he wasn’t frightened; as though if he pretended hard enough someday it would be true. But it wasn’t working. He wasn’t any braver than he had been at Haven. He was still just a frightened child muddling his way through this and praying desperately that no one noticed.

“Number one rule of the Fade,” Dorian’s voice broke through his thoughts, the man suddenly beside him as they picked their way along the rocky ground, “Is don’t believe anything a demon says. It’s all lies and manipulation.”

Aldaron looked over at him and Dorian didn’t look frightened at all. How was that possible? How could he not be scared? Because he was a mage? He’d been to the Fade before, though not physically, and faced demons here before. Aldaron’s only experience with demons was with the ones that came out of rifts, and they never talked.

The Inquisitor didn’t reply, didn’t trust his voice at the moment, just nodded and tried once more to put the Nightmare’s words out of his mind. Lies. Manipulation. It wasn’t true.

Except it was.

He shook his head and quickened his steps. Don’t think about it. Just keep moving forward. Get out of the Fade, and then it won’t matter.

But the Nightmare was there at the rift, unable to get through on its own but blocking their way forward. It was the most horrifying thing that Aldaron had ever seen. As soon as he laid eyes on its massive, grotesque form the elf wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide. Or vomit. Maybe both.

As he was trying to regain enough of his courage to even consider attacking that thing the spirit of the Divine glided forward, offered parting words that he almost did not hear, and flew straight for the Nightmare. Whether she intended to attack it or merely provide enough of a distraction for them to get past it didn’t matter. There were other demons though, lesser fears and terrors. Even with the Nightmare out of the way there was no clear path to the rift. They would have to fight.

 

* * *

 

Dorian stumbled as he came out of the rift, hitting the ground harder than anticipated. He had to throw an arm out to the side to keep his balance, but managed to make himself not look too clumsy. He had emerged exactly where expected, in Adamant’s inner courtyard, and took a moment to assess the situation there. Escaping the Fade hardly meant they were out of danger; the fortress had been crawling with demons when they left. There were no signs of demons now, however, though the courtyard was full of soldiers, all now staring at Dorian, Cole, and Blackwall in shock. Well, they had just walked out of the Fade; Dorian was rather shocked about it himself.

Assured that there was no immediate danger on this side, Dorian’s mind turned back to threat he’d just escaped. He spun around and looked up at the rift, expecting Stroud and Hawke and Aldaron to come tumbling out of it any moment.

Any second now.

But the moment stretched on and they didn’t come. Dorian waited and stared and the moment turned into an eternity as panic began to creep up his spine and clutch at his heart.

Where was he? _Where was he?_

No no no no no.

Not like this. Not now. Dorian had only had him for a few weeks, and he hadn’t even properly understood what was right in front of him.

Please don’t take him away this soon. Dorian hadn’t even told him…

Maker knew why someone like Aldaron would want anything to do with someone like Dorian. Not that Dorian wasn't amazing in his own way, but no one could compare to the Herald of Andraste. Dorian had been in awe of him since the attack on Haven, possibly before that. But what could such a glorious creature see in someone like him? The Inquisitor was dazzling. Tireless, compassionate, fearless – no, not entirely fearless, but unafraid in the face of the impossible and terrified of the mundane. But also so full of doubt, so uncertain when there was no reason to be. An elf: Herald of Andraste and leader of what was quickly becoming the most powerful military and political organization in Thedas. Pride, he realized suddenly, he was proud of his lover and all that Aldaron had accomplished in such a short time.

Dorian wanted to tell Aldaron how amazing he was, but the words always stuck in his throat. He was unused to sentiment, uncomfortable expressing the depth of his emotions, petrified of the depth of his emotions.

And now he might never have the chance.

How had he fallen so far, so hard, so fast?

Aldaron might not walk out of the Fade this time. Dorian had let opportunity after opportunity slip through his fingers. Unbidden, the last picture he had of Aldaron came to his mind, the glance over his shoulder before leaping through the rift. Aldaron covered in the blood of his enemies, jaw set, hair wild, eyes black as the void, knuckles white on the hilts of his daggers, green glow around one hand. Put that on the cover of Varric’s next book, that’s what a hero looked like.

And Dorian might never get to see him again.

The rift flickered and Dorian’s heart nearly stopped. Then Hawke tumbled out, nearly falling over when his feet hit solid ground.

And then there he was. The Inquisitor walked out of the Fade and made it look as easy as a stroll in the park. He was bloody and grim faced and the most perfect thing that Dorian had ever seen. He held his hand up and the rift closed with a snap. Dorian took two steps forward before he was able to stop himself. Don’t make a scene. Not here. Not in front of all these people. But he was so relieved that he might cry, and yet terrified that he might be hallucinating - still trapped in some demon’s illusion. He wanted to reach out and touch and hold and kiss and reassure himself that Aldaron was alive and whole, but now was not the time. Dorian forced himself to stay put, tense, exhausted and yet thrumming with energy. It was all he could do not to run up to Aldaron and sweep the elf into his arms and never let him go ever again. Somehow he managed.

Belatedly Dorian realized that someone was missing. Warden Stroud had not come out of the Fade and yet the Inquisitor had already closed the rift.

“Inquisitor,” It was one of the Inquisition soldiers, running up to give a report as though the Inquisitor hadn’t just done the impossible. Well, the impossible was becoming expected where their Herald was involved. “The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.”

“We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s… tragic mistake,” one of the Wardens spoke up, but whether he actually had the authority to make such promises Dorian had no idea. “Where is Stroud?”

That was the question of the hour. What had happened in there after he turned his back? Why had it taken so long for Aldaron to follow? “He didn’t make it,” the Inquisitor answered, voice and expression flat, emotionless. Dorian frowned. That didn’t sound like the Aldaron he knew. That was the voice he used when passing judgment, when talking to diplomats that he didn’t like. Dorian hated that voice.

The rest of the conversation Dorian barely listened to. A lot of talk about Grey Wardens and he really didn’t care. He was more concerned about his lover and what had caused him to throw all of his walls up again and shut himself off from the world. Well, everything that had happened in the Fade, probably, but Dorian got the distinct feeling there was something he’d missed. Something important had happened in that short and yet impossibly long moment that they had been apart.

“Aldaron,” he said when it seemed all the business was dealt with. The Inquisitor startled at hearing his name and looked over at Dorian as though noticing him for the first time. His face was still carefully blank, betraying nothing of what he felt. It was rather unnerving. “Are you alright?” Dorian asked and somehow managed to affect an almost casual tone in his question.

Aldaron stared at him for a long moment, and then simply nodded his head. “I’m fine,” he said simply. “I have to find Cullen.” And with that the Inquisitor brushed past him and disappeared into the crowd. There was no reassuring smile like Dorian usually received after a fight, no comforting words, no casual touch as the elf walked past, nothing.

It really shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

 

* * *

The Inquisitor had disappeared so quickly it was as though by magic. Not to a tree- or wall-top as usual where Dorian might find him and ask what was wrong, but to actual Inquisition business. He was holed up in a tent somewhere with Cullen and Leliana recounting in minute detail what had happened during their little jaunt into the Fade. At least that was the word around camp when Dorian finally trudged off the battlefield filthy, exhausted, and more than a little annoyed.

He found the tent – their make-shift war room – and could occasionally hear voices within when they raised enough. Cullen, Leliana, Hawke, but not Aldaron. Dorian realized that the Inquisitor was probably still locked up in that little emotionless bubble that he withdrew into sometimes and was so very difficult to get him out of.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Sera warned, much to Dorian’s surprise, when she caught him staring at the tent as though he wanted to set it on fire (the idea had crossed his mind). “Went in there all scary Inquisitor-face. No fun like that. As like t’ stab you as t’ kiss you.”

“What?” Dorian squawked, too tired to managed to hide his surprise at her last comment, and quick to try and play it off. “I— What are you talking about?”

“What?” the girl parroted and stared at him cluelessly, “Everyone knows you ‘n him are havin’ it on. Snoggin’ in the library an’ all that mush. Whatever, though, that’s your business. I’m just sayin’: don’t go in there if y’ wanna keep all your bits.”

“I…” there weren’t many things that could render Dorian Pavus speechless, but learning that his relationship with the Inquisitor was apparently common knowledge – who exactly did Sera consider ‘everyone’? – was definitely one of those things. He’d tried to be as discrete as possible, and thought he was doing a good job. They barely touched in public, and had only kissed in the library one time. But despite all of his efforts was it still that obvious? “… Thank you?” he eventually finished, voice coming out much weaker than he would have liked.

Sera merely shrugged and walked away. Dorian took another look back at the tent and decided that he probably didn’t want to deal with whatever was going on in there anyway. Aldaron would have to come out eventually. And Dorian really needed a change of clothes, so he turned away reluctantly and went off to find his own tent. Maker he couldn’t wait to get back to Skyhold and have a bath. Who ever thought camping was a good idea?

Several hours later Dorian was in his tent, as cleaned up as was possible, examining his probably-ruined robes and wondering if Fade mud washed out. Was mud in the Fade different from regular mud? Just as he was deciding to ask Aldaron for new robes regardless – it was partly his fault they were ruined after all - there was suddenly movement at the tent opening. He looked over in time to see the subject of his thoughts duck inside. The Inquisitor had removed his armor, stripped down to shirtsleeves, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

Dorian barely had a chance to open his mouth for a greeting before he suddenly found himself with a lap full of elf and Aldaron was kissing him with a desperation Dorian had never felt before. It was shocking, but intoxicating – impossible not to respond to. His body reacted immediately, before his mind even registered what was happening, arms wrapping around Aldaron’s waist as the elf pressed closer to him. When his brain finally caught up with his body, however, he realized that this was incredibly odd behavior for his lover, who had been almost afraid to touch him before.

With no insignificant amount of effort Dorian pulled away from the kiss. “Aldaron what are--?”

“Don’t,” the elf cut him off, pressed his face into the crook of Dorian’s shoulder before the man could get a good look at his face. “Please just--,” he sighed, breath hot against the bare skin on Dorian’s shoulder. “I need--.” He couldn’t seem to finish a single thought, at least not in words. But the press of his lips against Dorian’s skin, the roll of his hips, spoke volumes.

A better man probably would have pushed him away. The Inquisitor was clearly not himself. Most likely riding high on lingering adrenaline and whatever raw emotions their experience in the Fade had brought to bear. A better man would probably have pulled away and made the Inquisitor talk through his problems instead of drowning them.

Dorian was not that man. And Dorian probably needed this almost as much as Aldaron. To feel his lover’s body warm and solid and undeniably real and alive after what they had been through.

So Dorian didn’t push him away, he tilted Aldaron’s face up toward him again and kissed him hungrily. Aldaron sighed against his lips and returned the kiss with equal fervor, clutching at him, pressing closer and rolling his hips in away that drew a soft moan from the man beneath him. Hands pulled at clothing, fumbling with buttons and buckles to get at the bare skin beneath. Shirts cast aside carelessly the pair tumbled onto Dorian’s bedroll in a tangle of limbs. Their lips only parted in order to breath, and for Dorian to press open-mouthed kisses to the underside of Aldaron’s jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He reveled in the soft sighs of pleasure that escaped the elf’s mouth, didn’t even care about the hands mussing his hair. There were already bruises beginning to form on Aldaron’s arms, Dorian realized somewhere in the back of his mind, the marks of dozens of vanquished foes and a terrifying reminder that thought the Inquisitor did the impossible he was not impervious to harm.

“Dorian…” Aldaron sighed as the man sucked a much more pleasant bruise onto his collar. His hands trailed down, down, brushed along the top of Dorian’s pants in an echo of his usual timidity. It was the only encouragement Dorian needed, not that he needed much in the first place, to bring his own hands down and quickly undo the ties that held Aldaron’s breeches on. Pants and smallclothes were both gone in one smooth moment and then their lips met again as two pairs of hands made equally fast work of Dorian’s remaining clothing.

All barriers between them cast side, Aldaron pressed up against Dorian, pulled the man closer to him. Both men moaned softly as their hips pressed together, skin sliding against skin for the first time. Aldaron hitched a leg up over Dorian’s hip to hold him close, breathing out his name in a barely audible moan.

The elf was a lot stronger than he looked. Of course, with all his clothes on Aldaron didn’t look like much at all; as thin as a twig and just as easily breakable. But underneath he was solid as a rock. Compact and lithe but everywhere that Dorian touched as he ran his hands over chest and stomach and thighs was firm and strong. His hands and leg easily held Dorian in place as they moved together, not that Dorian was inclined to pull away. At least he didn’t pull away farther than it took to slip a hand between their bodies to wrap around both of them. The first stroke brought a gasp and a moan from Aldaron’s lips. They moved together desperately, all sweat-slicked skin and grasping hands and open-mouthed kisses. Aldaron’s breathing became more ragged, his moans louder and stifled against Dorian’s lips and neck. The mage wasn’t in a much better state, if he were completely honest with himself. They finished only moments apart and collapsed, panting in a tangle of limbs.  
  
He must have dozed off because the next thing Dorian was aware of was waking up because it was cold and there was no lithe elven body wrapped around his to keep him warm. He opened his eyes and looked around the tent blearily. He shouldn’t be upset or concerned about waking up alone, it’s what he was used to, but Dorian was concerned. Because Aldaron wasn’t like all of his previous lovers and if he wasn’t here then something was wrong.

Shivering, Dorian propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at the interior of the tent when there was barely any light to see by. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he spotted the shadowy figure by the tent flap. Aldaron had dressed in just his pants and was sitting on the ground by the front of the tent, holding the flap open just enough to look out. He didn’t look like he was about to bolt, but then what was he doing over there and not at Dorian’s side?

“Amatus?” the man asked quietly, “What are you doing up?” It was the middle of the night judging by the stars he could see.

Aldaron turned his head slowly to look back at Dorian. It was too dark to make out his expression. “I can’t sleep,” the elf murmured, voice barely a whisper.

Dorian frowned and sat up slowly, “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“They say when we dream our minds are in the Fade,” Aldaron said breathlessly, voice trembling. Dorian wasn’t sure where he was going with this, so he stayed silent and waited for him to continue. “At first I was afraid that we didn’t make it out after all, that this was all an illusion… But it’s not. We’re here. And I…” his voice cracked, he stopped and swallowed heavily before continuing, “I don’t want to go back there again. I can’t--,” his voice broke again and he buried his face in his hands to muffle a sob.

Dorian’s body was moving before his mind was aware. All he knew was that suddenly he was by Aldaron’s side and reaching out to him, a hand on his lover’s shoulder but uncertain how to offer comfort.

“I can’t do this, Dorian,” Aldaron whimpered, words tight in the back of his throat, choked out through tears, “I’m not— I’m not a leader. I don’t know what I’m doing, but everyone…” his breath was coming in ragged gasps now, he swiped furiously at the tears on his cheeks but they kept coming. Dorian didn’t know what to do, he just sat close to him, rubbed his back in what he hoped was a soothing way, and listened. “Everyone trusts me, like I know best. I don’t know anything. More good people are going to die and it’s going to be my fault. Just like… just like…”

“Stroud’s death was not your fault,” Dorian insisted softly when Aldaron choked on the words, unable to get them out. It was a bad situation that couldn’t possibly have had a good outcome; it was a miracle any of them made it out alive.

“It was!” Aldaron wailed, raising red, tearstained eyes to Dorian’s face, close enough now that he could see properly even in the dim light. He was an absolute mess, cheeks lined with tears and eyes rimmed red – how long had he been crying? It was heartbreaking. “Someone had to cover our backs. They both volunteered, they made me choose! But how could I--? I chose at random, Dorian! I left a man to die because his name was the first one that came to mind!” That seemed to be the breaking point. Aldaron collapsed into Dorian’s chest, fingers clutching at anything they could hold onto, digging in hard enough to bruise, tears hot against his bare skin.

It was then that Dorian first realized the full magnitude of the pressure constantly on the Inquisitor’s shoulders. Aldaron shrugged it off most of the time, but the decisions he made daily put lives at risk. Here was a man barely out of his boyhood, who had never before spared a thought for politics, who never before had anything more pressing to worry about than where the next meal came from, who was happiest climbing trees and picking herbs. Then someone had laid the fate of the entire world in his hands like some priceless statue and said ‘make sure you don’t break this’ before pushing him off a cliff.

“Amatus…” Dorian murmured, wrapping his arms around his lover’s trembling shoulders. How could he possibly hope to say anything that would matter at this point? Dorian wasn’t any good at dealing with real emotions. He found the solution to all of his problems at the bottom of a bottle of wine or in someone else’s bed, and he had never really cared about anyone else’s problems before. This was different, though. This time he did care; far too much, in fact. His heart ached as Aldaron gasped and sobbed and clung to him. “It’s not your fault,” he said, but the words felt hollow, meaningless. All the books he’d read, all the fancy words he knew, Dorian couldn’t think of a single thing that would make this better. “You did everything you could. No one blames you, amatus.”

Aldaron did not reply, but Dorian was certain he was past the point where speech was an option. The elf could barely breathe. Carefully, Dorian pulled him back toward the bedroll and lay down, holding Aldaron to his chest. He murmured meaningless things - endearments, reassurances – and rubbed his lover’s back gently until his breathing calmed. Aldaron did fall asleep eventually, exhausted both emotionally and physically. Dorian held him close the whole time, staring up at the tent ceiling and feeling utterly useless.

He didn't fall asleep himself until much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to write Aldaron's breakdown since the start of this thing and now it's finally time.


	13. Sleepless

When Dorian woke the next morning light was streaming in through the seams of the tent and he was alone again. There was no sign of Aldaron anywhere, even his boots were gone. Dorian was not particularly surprised, but he was a little concerned. The Inquisitor had not been himself the night before, to say the very least. The spot beside him on the bedroll was as cold as though Aldaron had never been there. How long had he been gone?

Worry gnawing at the back of his mind, Dorian rose from the bedroll and began getting ready for the day ahead. He dressed in the only set of clean robes he had – and even these were dusty from travel, but at least they weren’t covered in blood – and ensured that his hair and moustache were in perfect order before gathering up his staff and leaving the tent.

By that point he’d managed to convince himself that he was worrying about nothing. For all he knew the Inquisitor had run off to early morning war council and politely left Dorian to his beauty sleep. But as he found himself something to eat and listened to the idle gossip of soldiers and servants packing up supplies it became apparent that was not the case.

So then, if he were the Inquisitor where would he be? No trees out here in the desert, so he would likely go for the highest most isolated place in the area. Not a lot of isolation available out here, either, with people still running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The walls, then; where Aldaron had been pacing before the assault. When Dorian had been assuring him that nothing would go wrong before everything went absolutely as wrong as possible. In hindsight he felt like a bit of an ass, but who could have predicted they would fall physically into the Fade. Perhaps that was why he felt so responsible for trying to heal Aldaron’s pain.

It certainly wasn’t because he had feelings for the elf. Certainly not because he was in love or anything of the sort. That was preposterous.

“You’re becoming shockingly predictable,” Dorian commented as he reached the wall top. Aldaron startled so badly at the sound of his voice that the elf almost physically jumped and spun around quickly to face him, hands already reaching for the daggers at his back before he recognized Dorian and managed to stop himself. The reaction was so dramatic that Dorian very nearly threw a barrier up between them. “Kaffas,” he breathed a sigh of relief when Aldaron stopped, “It’s only me.”

“You startled me,” Aldaron said. His eyes were wide, with dark circles underneath as he slowly relaxed and lowered his hands.

“Evidently,” Dorian replied, and took in the elf’s appearance for a moment. He looked just as exhausted as he had the night before. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes,” Aldaron replied, though he looked away and would not meet Dorian’s eyes when he answered.

Of course he had, Dorian had seen him fall asleep, but that wasn’t really what he was asking. “Did you sleep more than an hour?” Aldaron did not reply, but his silence was answer enough. Dorian sighed. He was concerned that Aldaron hadn’t been able to sleep, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

“You don’t understand,” Aldaron said quietly. “I don’t want… I can’t go back there.”

“To the Fade?” Dorian asked. He remembered what Aldaron had said the night before. Was he afraid to fall asleep? “Amatus, dreams can’t hurt you. They’re not real.”

“I know that!” the Inquisitor snapped suddenly, startling Dorian with his outburst. Then just as quickly he quieted down and shied away, murmuring a soft “I’m sorry.”

“You’re exhausted,” Dorian said, easily forgiving the outburst this time. Aldaron was still shaken by what had happened to them, he would have to choose his words carefully. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t,” the elf stressed again, and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re heading back to Skyhold today,” he mumbled, an attempt to change the subject that Dorian saw through immediately.

“Are you going to be able to ride without falling asleep and falling off your horse?” Dorian asked, a little more accusatory than he really meant. This wasn’t going at all the direction he had intended.

Aldaron frowned, his brow furrowed, “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Fine?” Dorian asked incredulously. “That display last night and you expect me to believe you’re fine?”

“What do you want me to say, Dorian?” Aldaron growled – actually growled – in frustration. “That I’m too scared to go to sleep? Scared the moment I close my eyes I’ll be right back there with that _thing_ and I’ll have to watch Stroud die all over again? Do you want to hear that I’ve been up here for hours trying to think about anything else, but I can’t? I keep seeing it over and over even when I’m awake, so how much worse is it bound to be if I go to sleep? Is that what you want to hear?” As he ranted Aldaron’s voice rose in pitch as he worked himself up nearly into the panic of the night before.

“I want to help, Aldaron,” Dorian said, trying to sound calm and reassuring and not feeling entirely successful. Maker, he had no idea how he was supposed to help his lover, but he wanted to. He wanted to do anything he could to make Aldaron feel safe and secure again.

“You can’t… Nobody can,” Aldaron’s voice did soften, but in despair rather than calm. “You… You laugh about demons trying to possess you. You’re not afraid. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

 Did he truly think that Dorian wasn’t ever afraid? Certainly their ordeal hadn’t effected him as badly as it had Aldaron, but he’d been plenty afraid. “Then help me understand,” the man said earnestly. He took a step forward to close the space between them and reached out to cup the elf’s face gently. “I want to help. Please don’t shut me out like you do everyone else.”

Aldaron shook his head slightly, but didn’t pull away. Given how unstable his mood seemed to be, Dorian took that as a small victory. “They can’t know… What would they think of me?”

“No one expects you to be perfect, amatus,” Dorian murmured. “You’re doing the best you can.”

“And it’s still not good enough,” the elf replied bitterly.

“It’s more than good enough,” Dorian insisted. “You’re mad if you think anyone could do better. Look how many people you’ve helped, how many people you’ve saved.”

“And how many people I’ve sent to their deaths.”

Aldaron would simply not allow himself to be comforted, Dorian thought in frustration. What had happened to give him such a low sense of self-worth? “They all knew it was possible going in,” Dorian said. “Stroud, your soldiers, they all knew what they were signing up for. You can’t save everyone, and no one is asking you to.”

“I’m not cut out for leadership, Dorian,” Aldaron whimpered.

“I disagree,” Dorian said. “The people here, they adore you. I—,” the words caught in his throat again and Dorian cursed himself. That was exactly what Aldaron needed to hear right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. So instead he just leaned down and pressed his lips against Aldaron’s and tried to convey in actions all the words he couldn’t bring himself to say. He wasn’t thinking about how half the army could see them if they happened to look the right way, Aldaron’s peace of mind was more important than some silly rumors. Besides, if certain people were to be believed then everyone already knew what was going on between them and nothing bad had come of it yet.

When they parted Aldaron was blushing a little bit and he didn’t look like he was going to cry anymore. “Thank you…” he murmured softly, for what Dorian wasn’t sure, but he let his hands fall away from Aldaron’s face. “We really do need to leave, though. You should see that your things are packed.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied. “Although you should know my other robes are positively ruined. Demon blood is so hard to get out.” 

Aldaron smiled. The tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth, there for only a second before it disappeared again. After all the fear and sadness the night before, however, the sight made Dorian’s heart soar. “I’ll buy you new ones,” he promised softly.

 

* * *

 

It took over a week to get back to Skyhold, the company’s pace slowed to accommodate wounded soldiers and the caravans of supplies that followed the troops. The Inquisitor and his inner circle could probably have moved on ahead of the main force, but Aldaron was disinclined to do so.

Since walking out of the Fade Aldaron had not slept for more than an hour or two any night. He was exhausted both physically and emotionally. Despite crawling into Dorian’s tent each night to try and distract himself with strong arms and soft lips more often than not he found himself lying awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dorian’s soft breathing in his ear until the sun began to leak in through the fabric. If he did manage to fall asleep it didn’t last long. Nightmarish memories haunted his dreams: the dull greenish tint of everything in the Fade, the smell of sulfur and decay, a massive creature with too many legs and too many eyes – Stroud, lying dead and mangled in a new horrific way each night, if there was even anything of him left at all. He woke in a cold sweat, with a scream on his lips. The terrors had woken Dorian on more than one occasion, and the man was now sporting bruises caused by Aldaron’s panicked flailing. As though he needed more things to feel guilty about.

Aldaron was glad to be back at Skyhold however. Here there were more things to distract himself with, work he could drown himself in to try and forget. And maybe a proper bed would help sleep come more easily.

The bed didn’t help, nor the fact that he was alone in it. Aldaron woke in the middle of the night terrified and alone and he was halfway down the stairs before he realized he wasn’t actually certain where Dorian’s quarters were and that he probably shouldn’t be running around the castle in nothing but his nightclothes anyway. Besides, Dorian would probably appreciate a night of uninterrupted sleep, and he was unlikely to get that as long as he shared a bed with Aldaron. At least until the nightmares stopped. Creators, he hoped they would stop. What would happen if they didn’t? Dorian was right to worry; he couldn’t go on like this for long, barely sleeping.

Bare feet cold on the stone floor, Aldaron trudged back up the stairs. He stood for a long moment staring at the bed, but knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again that night. Grabbing a blanket to wrap around himself against the chill from the balcony door he always left open Aldaron settled at his desk, lit a candle, and drowned himself in reports. He stayed there until the sun was up and managed to read through every scrap of paper that had piled up while he was away.

They would be serving breakfast in the main hall soon, but Aldaron did not have much of an appetite. Lately he’d been eating almost as infrequently as he slept. It was a bad combination, he knew that, but could not bring himself to care. Everything felt so hopeless and miserable now. He was so exhausted.

Eventually, when the sun had risen fully, Aldaron rose from his seat and forced himself to face the day. He dressed and attempted to make himself presentable. Although the Inquisitor had never been vain – did not care about the state of his hair or the fashion of his clothes – even he had to admit he didn’t look good. There were dark circles under his eyes from a week of sleepless nights, unlikely to disappear any time soon. He couldn’t hide those or wave away concerns for much longer before people stopped believing his excuses. Maybe there was a way to cover them up; some shemlen cosmetic like the noblewomen caked themselves in. The idea itself was repulsive, but the Inquisitor had to keep up appearances.

Dorian would probably know. The man always looked immaculate. Breakfast would be over by now, which meant the mage would probably be in the library. And Dorian thought he was predictable.

Aldaron combed through his hair with his fingers as he headed down from his tower room, taming the wild locks into some semblance of order before he emerged into the main hall. Forced smiles and polite greetings as he made his way across the hall, gone as soon as the door was shut behind him and he mounted the stairs up toward the library. And there he was, staring at the shelves with a frown and a look of deep concentration.

“Good morning,” Aldaron greeted as he approached so as not to startle the man too badly.

“You have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history,” Dorian said by way of a greeting. Aldaron had learned not to be offended when the man found his research more interesting than quite literally anything else in the world. When he got wrapped up in something Dorian could often think of little else. “All these ‘gifts’ to the Inquisition and the best they can do is the Malefica Imperio? Trite propaganda. But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it.” He sounded annoyed. Aldaron didn’t spend a lot of time in the library (really any time at all unless he was talking to someone there), but he wasn’t surprised to learn it was full of Chantry literature.

Unfamiliar with the library though he was, helping Dorian with his research sounded like a great way to keep his mind off of his troubles. “If I knew what you were looking for I could help,” he offered.

“You?” Dorian looked over at him and very nearly sneered, “I rather doubt it.” Aldaron actually took a step away in surprise, shocked that Dorian would say such a thing. So he didn’t read much, or at all, but he’d never had need to before the Inquisition. And just because he wasn’t a bookworm like Dorian didn’t mean he couldn’t help. Didn’t mean he was stupid. Did Dorian think he was stupid? But the man seemed to realize what he’d done as soon as he saw the hurt lining Aldaron’s face and he sighed, “I apologize, that was unworthy.” Somehow it didn’t sound all that sincere, and Dorian was immediately turning back toward the shelves, mumbling to himself, “I did see something by Genitivi here? I could have sworn…”

It was about as clear a dismissal as Aldaron had ever gotten, and the elf found himself rather offended. If Dorian didn’t want his help he could just say so. There was no need to brush him off like he was some sort of illiterate savage. He got enough of that from the nobles he had to deal with; he didn’t need it from his lover as well. “What is this about Dorian?”

Dorian sighed again and his shoulders slumped. “When we fell into the chasm, into the Fade… I thought you were done for,” he said, and closed his eyes as he took in a steadying breath, “I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment.”

“Forgive me?” Aldaron asked, still annoyed by the man’s early words so that he didn’t quite grasp the weight of these. “You were right there with me the entire time.”

“For making me think you were dead!” Dorian snapped and rounded on him. But as soon as he was looking at Aldaron the anger bled out of him. “You sent me ahead and then didn’t follow. For just a moment, I was certain you wouldn’t. I thought: ‘This is it. This is where I finally lose him forever’. Are you… alright?”

Dorian had to have asked him that a dozen times by now, but Aldaron always dodged the question. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want to remember. He’d been so wrapped up in his own grief and fear that he didn’t stop to think about Dorian. He had never asked how Dorian was feeling, if Dorian was alright. He had assumed, foolishly, that because the man didn’t look upset that he was fine. Now he realized how much of a selfish idiot he had been. Aldaron’s behavior over the past week – crawling to Dorian for comfort and distraction and never giving any in return – had been unfair to the man. He’d ignored him and snapped at him and used him and screamed and cried and through it all Dorian just kept asking if he was alright. When Aldaron realized he’d never given a straight answer he felt ashamed. Dorian only wanted to know he was safe, and Aldaron had been nothing but an ass to him.

“It…” he began quietly, hesitantly. Dorian deserved the truth, not Aldaron’s insecurity translated into anger. “It was like walking in a nightmare, but everything was real. I couldn’t…” His voice cracked and he stopped. He would not have another breakdown here in the library where so many other people could see it. He wasn’t alright. He was so far from alright.

“Ah, it’s as I thought,” Dorian murmured, and his voice was gentle, sympathetic. “The Fade is an ordeal under normal circumstances. To be the only real thing there… Beyond description.” So it had bothered him after all, that was reassuring in some small way. “That any of us made it out alive is difficult to believe. That _you_ made it out? A miracle. You do realize this feat hasn’t been performed in over a thousand years?” Dorian continued as though he were giving a lecture instead of having a conversation. “Corypheus and his contemporaries entered the Fade and began the blights. In comparison…”

In comparison? Aldaron didn’t want to be compared to Corypheus in any way. “That’s not exactly comforting, Dorian,” Aldaron said in dismay. Yes, he was glad they hadn’t unleashed another endless plague upon the world, but that was a very low bar for judging success.

“Nor should it be,” Dorian said seriously. “If you can walk in the Fade others will try to follow. Who knows what secrets Corypheus has revealed? Not everyone will be as lucky as you. What they could unleash…” he shook his head, dismissing the thought. It wasn’t something Aldaron wanted to think of, either. Walking physically through the Fade had been bad enough, he didn’t want to think of how much worse it could have been. “My advice? Keep this quiet. Let them speculate. Too many will see this as a challenge.”

Aldaron nodded slowly, realizing that Dorian was right. “I agree.” There were too many holes in the sky already.

 “There are enough idiots in the world who think if they just use enough blood magic, their problems will vanish,” Dorian said despairingly. “It’s exactly the sort of thing I want to stop back home. This… this I don’t need,” he shook his head and turned back to the bookshelf he’d been perusing when Aldaron arrived. “What I do need is a copy of the Liberalum. I’ll wager I can find Corypheus’ real name. If I can prove he was a grasping ankle-biter with no family to speak of? The luster would come right off,” he turned to flash a grin in Aldaron’s direction, “Wish me luck.”

“Are you certain you don’t want any help?” Aldaron asked hopefully. Maybe he would be useless at it, but he needed something to do.

“I’m more than capable of handling my own research,” Dorian replied not unkindly. “And I’m certain you have enough work of your own. I know how the reports pile up while you’re away.”

“I finished those already,” Aldaron admitted.

“Already?” Dorian asked in surprise, and turned back to Aldaron, “How could you--,” he cut himself off as realization dawned on him, “You didn’t sleep.” It was not a question, but Aldaron looked away and his silence was enough confirmation. “More nightmares?” Dorian asked, voice low and quiet, conscious of Aldaron’s desire to keep this secret.

“Yes,” the elf replied just as quietly.

Dorian sighed and Aldaron did not look up to see the concern he knew would be on his face. “Shall I come see you tonight? Would that help?”

Probably not, but Aldaron couldn’t help but want it anyway just so he wouldn’t have to wake up alone. But that wasn’t fair to Dorian. The man didn’t deserve all the sleepless nights, the bruises. “I’ve robbed you of enough sleep already."

“Not nearly as much as you’ve lost yourself, I think,” Dorian replied. “But that isn’t what I asked.”

“I don’t know,” Aldaron admitted, looking everywhere but at Dorian’s face. It was hard to admit even to his lover that he felt weak, lost, incapable. He was supposed to be strong, supposed to be a leader. Dorian’s presence, while a comfort in the aftermath of a nightmare, had done nothing so far to keep them at bay. So why continue inflicting himself upon the man? “I don’t know if anything will help.”

“Have you considered speaking to Solas?” Dorian asked. “He is rather an expert on dreams. He might know some way to stop these nightmares.”

“No,” Aldaron said more fiercely than he had intended. “I don’t want anyone else to know.” It was bad enough that Dorian knew, and he trusted Dorian more than anyone else. The others… He was afraid of what they would think if they saw how frightened he had been, how frightened he still was. They would loose all respect for him, of that he was certain.

“Alright,” Dorian said placatingly, “It was only a suggestion. You’re welcome to stay here if you like, but I’m certain you’ll find it terribly boring. Not nearly enough trees and small woodland creatures for you, I think.”

It was rather painfully stuffy in here. Did none of these windows open? Aldaron considered inviting Dorian to do his research elsewhere, somewhere with sunlight and fresh air, but no, the man would just wind up running back and forth for new books every few minutes. “You’re probably right,” he was forced to admit. 

“I’m always right,” Dorian replied with a grin, “One of these days you’ll figure that out.”

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitor did hang around for a little while. He fetched books and flipped through pages without appearing to read them, he yawned occasionally and looked out the window every few minutes like clockwork. Eventually Dorian had to say that he was more of a distraction than a help and politely shooed the elf out of the library, suggesting that he go check on all the rest of his followers or stab some practice dummies or climb a tree. Aldaron had rolled his eyes at that last suggestion and complained that he really didn’t spend that much time in trees.

“Yes, I only find you in one every other day when we’re on the road, and every third when we’re back here,” Dorian had replied, with only mild exaggeration. “For someone who is clearly part squirrel you spend remarkably little time in trees.”

The elf pouted a little, but left in a better mood than he had arrived, Dorian thought. He hoped someone else would have a task to occupy his wayward lover. And they must have, because Dorian didn’t see the Inquisitor again until dinner. They ate, as usual, with several of the Inquisitor’s closest companions and Aldaron’s mood did seem much improved. He chatted, he smiled – the real one, crooked and beautiful – and Dorian was relieved. Maybe the fear was passing now that things were back to normal.

As normal as they ever got for the Inquisition, anyway. 

But that didn’t stop Dorian from letting himself into the Inquisitor’s quarters later that evening and coaxing the skittish elf into bed. He might cost himself a few hours of sleep or another nasty bruise if Aldaron had a particularly violent nightmare, but he would rather be here than make Aldaron face that nightmare alone.

 

* * *

Dorian was awoken by a sharp pain in his ribs and a scream in his ear. He bolted upright, instinctively looking for the danger before his mind was even properly aware of his surroundings. When he came fully awake it took only a second for him to react. “Aldaron,” he breathed, and turned toward the man beside him, tangled in the sheets and face twisted in agony. The elf was still asleep, struggling against imaginary demons he could not escape. “Amatus,” he said, louder this time, and reached out for him. Aldaron flung out an arm that nearly hit Dorian in the face. He grabbed both of the elf’s wrists and pinned them to the mattress in an attempt to subdue his flailing. “Aldaron,” he called, and then again louder, “Aldaron.” With his arms restrained, the elf kicked ineffectively, legs too tangled in the sheets to do any real harm. “Amatus, wake up,” Dorian called desperately. “Aldaron!”

The elf jolted awake with a gasping cry and struggled a moment more against the hands restraining him until his wide eyes were able to focus on Dorian’s face and he fell slack, panting heavily.

“It’s alright,” Dorian murmured, slowly releasing Aldaron’s arms and relaxing. “You’re alright. Just a dream.” His own heart was thundering in his chest, tight with concern and adrenaline. The Inquisitor was a ferocious fighter, even in his sleep.

Aldaron’s breathing slowly grew steadier and his eyes never left Dorian’s face. “Dorian,” he breathed his name like a prayer.

“I’m here,” the mage replied. “You’re safe.”

“Dorian,” Aldaron breathed again, his voice more choked this time. His brows knit upward and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Then he rolled onto his side and covered his face with his hands, pulling his knees up toward his chest.

Despite having dealt with this nearly every night since they walked out of the Fade, Dorian felt no better equipped to deal with it. He lay down again, facing his lover, and reached out to hold him as best he could when Aldaron was curled in on himself like this. He stroked the elf’s hair softly, combing out the ever-present tangles with his fingers.

“I just want it to stop,” Aldaron choked out in a whisper after simply laying there in silence for a while. His voice was thick with tears, but Dorian couldn’t tell if he was actually crying or not. “I’m so tired, Dorian.”

“I know,” Dorian replied. He wanted it to stop as well. They couldn’t go on like this. Aldaron couldn’t go on like this. The stress, the fear, the sleepless nights. How long could he function like this before his body simply gave out? He’d been too optimistic at dinner. He’d told Aldaron to go distract himself and it had worked for a while, but now here they were again, right back where they started.

Eventually Aldaron uncurled himself, wiped at his eyes and let Dorian pull him close again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly. “Did I hurt you again?”

Dorian would probably have a bruise in the morning, Aldaron’s elbows were rather lethal, and so he couldn’t deny it. “I’ve had worse, I’m sure,” he said instead, trying to brush it off.

“I’m sorry,” Aldaron murmured again, “You shouldn’t have to put up with me… I’ve been such an ass to you lately.”

“What?” Dorian asked, honestly confused. When had Aldaron been an ass? Certainly no time that Dorian could remember. His behavior over the past week and a half had been confusing and distressing, but never cruel. “Nonsense. You’ve been a delight.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Aldaron insisted. “I know I’ve been miserable, and I’ve taken it all out on you. It’s not fair… I’m sorry.”

“Amatus…” Dorian sighed softly. He supposed he could have turned the elf away when he crawled into his tent that first night, but he hadn’t wanted to. Not that night or any of the ones following it regardless of the disruptions to his sleep, of the inadequacy he felt trying to comfort Aldaron. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” This was where he needed to be, and he found he didn’t even particularly care anymore if other people knew about them. He only wished he could actually do something to help.

“Thank you,” Aldaron breathed, and held him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aldaron's theme song is I'm Not Okay by My Chemical Romance
> 
> If you're not [following me on tumblr](erandir.tumblr.com) you're missing out on screenshots of Aldaron's stupid face and me rolling around in my feelings. It is quality blogging, I assure you.


	14. Mending

After days of spending his nights lying awake in bed while Dorian slept soundly at his side Aldaron was becoming intimately familiar with the man’s sleeping habits.

If they weren’t distracted by other activities, the man tended to stay up late reading whatever book had caught his interest that day. If asked, he would read aloud to Aldaron. Though the elf found most of Dorian’s books terribly confusing it was nice just to hear his voice until Dorian eventually fell asleep. He had learned that Dorian was a clingy sleeper who would wrap himself around Aldaron like a second blanket if the elf wasn’t already wrapped around him. Or maybe that was just a defense against the cold. Autumn had arrived in the Frostbacks and the air was getting colder. The breeze that crept in through the open balcony door was enough to make even Aldaron shiver at times, and Dorian complained about it constantly. He would have to learn to deal with closed doors at night by the time winter arrived, but that wasn’t something he felt up to at the moment.

The Inquisitor’s ability to sleep through the night had not improved, although his ability to function throughout the day on little to no sleep had improved by leaps and bounds. Lying awake for hours every night with nothing to do but listen to Dorian’s breathing and stare at the rafters also left him with plenty of time to think.

He knew almost the moment that Dorian woke up. The change in his breathing, the way he burrowed deeper into the blankets against the morning chill. Aldaron waited a moment, to see if he would fall back asleep, and then spoke up softly. “Dorian… Are you awake?”

“No,” came the reply mumbled into a pillow.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aldaron murmured, ignoring the blatant lie. He had been thinking about this for hours, and needed to say it out loud. “I need to kill a dragon.”

There was a long silence before Dorian spoke again; so long Aldaron thought maybe he did fall back asleep. “I must still be asleep because I think you just said you want to kill a dragon,” his voice was still rough and mumbled from sleep.

“I did,” Aldaron confirmed.

That woke Dorian up. He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows to look down at Aldaron. The expression on his face clearly said that he thought Aldaron had gone insane. “Why?”

Aldaron had an answer for this. He’d been practicing it in his head for the past hour because he knew Dorian wouldn’t be happy. “Corypheus has control of that dragon… archdemon… whatever. Eventually someone will have to deal with it, and it’s probably going to be me. But I don’t know how to kill a dragon, so… I need to do it… For practice.” It had sounded better in his head.

“For practice,” Dorian repeated in disbelief. “And where do you plan to find this dragon?”

“Our agents have been keeping an eye on the one in Crestwood,” Aldaron continued immediately. “It hasn’t been causing any trouble, but it should be dealt with. Dragon that close to a town is too dangerous.”

“You’ve clearly thought this through very carefully,” Dorian commented, and he didn’t sound very happy. Aldaron had expected that. “I suppose there’s no talking you out of it, then?”

Aldaron shook his head silently. At Adamant when that dragon had appeared he’d been terrified. He had no idea how to fight something that large. There were probably tactics and strategies to consider, but he didn’t know them. And even if he had, knowing and doing were two different things. “You don’t have to come,” he said. He would be disappointed if Dorian stayed behind, but he would not blame him. Aldaron himself didn’t particularly want to fight a dragon, but he felt like he needed to.

Dorian scoffed and flopped back down onto the pillows, “After what you did last time I let you out of my sight I really don’t think that’s an option. Besides, you would be lost without me.”

“I would,” Aldaron agreed, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. More than Dorian knew.

“Oh, flattery! Do continue,” Dorian grinned, “Are you going to tell me how handsome and talented I am? How invaluable my contribution to the Inquisition?”

“If you already know then I don’t need to tell you,” Aldaron replied, but smiled a little bit as well.

“It never hurts to hear it again,” Dorian protested, “We don’t all have hundreds of followers falling over themselves to sing our praises.”

“Shall I ask Maryden to write you a song?” Aldaron asked.

“Maker, please no,” Dorian blanched in horror.

“Varric, then?” Aldaron suggested.

“If those are my only two options then I think I would rather be forgotten to history,” Dorian grumbled.

Aldaron let out a short breathy chuckle, amazed by how easily Dorian was able to lighten his mood. He really wasn’t sure what he would do without this man at his side, patiently supporting him through everything. But now Dorian was staring at him in wonder and the smile faded from Aldaron’s face as he shifted self-consciously. “What?”

Very slowly a grin spread across Dorian’s face, “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he said, and it was Aldaron’s turn to be shocked. That couldn’t be true, could it? Surely he had… No, maybe he hadn’t. Aldaron couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d laughed. Suddenly Dorian bowled him over, rolling a startled Aldaron onto his back and straddling his hips. “Do it again,” he said, grinning down at the elf.

“I can’t just laugh on command,” Aldaron protested. He’d never seen Dorian this excited. At least not about anything other than new books or new clothes.

Dorian’s grin faded momentarily into a look of thoughtful concentration, and then returned devious and sly. “Then you leave me no other choice. I wonder… Is the Inquisitor ticklish?”

“No,” Aldaron breathed in muted horror. He tried to squirm away from Dorian, but short of throwing the man off him there wasn’t much he could do. “No no no,” he tried to swat Dorian’s hands away as they moved toward his sides, but the man was persistent. The first laugh came out as more of a startled shriek, Aldaron’s body flinched away instinctively and he clapped both hands over his mouth in embarrassment. Dorian paused for the briefest moment, then grinned deviously and let his fingers run up Aldaron’s sides. The elf quickly dissolved into a fit of laughter, squirming as he tried weakly to push Dorian’s hands away. “Stop,” he begged breathlessly, gasping through the laughter as Dorian continued, “Dorian…” A moment longer and the man finally pulled his hands away. Relieved, Aldaron fell limp against the sheets, breathing heavily, but grinning from ear to ear and feeling more relaxed and happy than he remembered being in a long time. It felt good.

When his breathing had calmed down a little Aldaron opened his eyes slowly to find Dorian beaming down at him with a look of such pure adoration that the elf had to look away again. His heart was racing now for a completely different reason. He was still looking away when Dorian leaned down and kissed his cheek, mustache tickling the side of his nose. “Maker, you’re magnificent,” he breathed into Aldaron’s ear, sending a shiver down the elf’s spine.

“You’re much better at flattery than I am,” Aldaron replied, shyly looking back at Dorian as the man pulled away again.

“I won’t hold it against you,” Dorian promised. “Very few people are so talented.”

“You clearly don’t need my flattery anyway,” Aldaron observed.

“You wound me,” Dorian gasped in mock dismay. “I’ll have to torture you again.”

The man wiggled his fingers threateningly, and Aldaron wasn’t sure he could handle a second assault so soon. “If you tickle me again I’ll tell everyone what your hair looks like in the morning,” the elf said quickly.

The tactic worked, and Dorian froze, immediately moving a hand to smooth down his sleep-disheveled hair. “You’ve been sworn to secrecy about the state of my hair in the morning,” he complained. “I have a reputation to maintain of being flawlessly gorgeous at all times.”

Aldaron rolled his eyes. He thought Dorian looked gorgeous at all times regardless of the state of his hair. “I like your hair this way,” Aldaron soothed, reaching up to run his fingers through it.

“You would,” Dorian scoffed, but to his credit didn’t stop Aldaron from messing up his hair further. “I imagine it resembles the mess on your own head. Do you even own a comb?”

“Maybe,” Aldaron shrugged innocently.

Dorian groaned, “Barbarians, the lot of you,” he complained, and gently took Aldaron’s wrists to push the elf’s hands away from his head. “Now,” he said slowly, seriously, “Tell me why you really want to fight a dragon.”

The smile that had been on Aldaron’s face since he’d first started laughing faded and his brow furrowed in confusion. “I told you,” he said hesitantly.

“You told me a very well thought out and logical and reasonable explanation for why you suddenly want to become a dragon hunger,” Dorian said, “An explanation I imagine you’ve been lying here thinking about since midnight. What’s the real reason?”

Aldaron should have known Dorian wouldn’t totally believe his lie. Well, half-lie. It was necessary training. Probably. But Dorian was right, it wasn’t the real reason. He looked to the side, ashamed and certain that Dorian would be even more unhappy when he heard the truth. “I’m tired of being scared all the time,” he admitted quietly.

“And killing a dragon will help?” Dorian asked. He didn’t sound angry, much to Aldaron’s surprise. He sounded concerned and confused.

“Maybe?” Aldaron shrugged again. “It can’t hurt.”

“I imagine it will hurt a great deal,” Dorian grumbled, “Have you seen the size of those things? It would eat you whole.”

“I have to do something!” Aldaron snapped, and the immediately regretted losing his temper. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian sighed and climbed off of Aldaron to lie down beside him again. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m just concerned about you.”

“I know,” Aldaron said, and rolled onto his side to face Dorian. “But I don’t want to be afraid of everything anymore. I can’t hide in Skyhold forever.”

“And your first thought is to go fight the largest and most dangerous thing in the world short of Corypheus himself?” Dorian asked. “How is that meant to help?”

That Aldaron did not know how to explain. It didn’t even make sense to him why throwing himself into danger so similar to what haunted his dreams would possibly help. But he was tired of sitting around feeling sorry for himself. That definitely wouldn’t make anything better. “I… The other day The Iron Bull wanted me to hit him with a stick because he was afraid of demons,” Aldaron began hesitantly. He watched Dorian’s eyebrows climb up toward his hairline, the mage looked like he wanted to say something, but managed to remain silent so Aldaron continued. “I didn’t understand why, he couldn’t explain it, but I guess it worked.” Aldaron paused a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. “The first time I saw a demon I was so terrified I couldn’t do anything. I just froze. But… After I killed one, after I saw that it was possible, that they die just like everything else if you stab them enough, they weren’t so frightening anymore.” He wasn’t making sense at all; had no idea where he was going with this story. He knew how he felt but he couldn’t explain it, he lacked the proper words. Aldaron sighed in frustration. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he said eventually, giving up. “Just trust me, Dorian.”

“Alright,” the mage relented with a sigh. Aldaron could tell he still wasn’t happy, but he was grateful that Dorian wasn’t arguing anymore. “When do we leave on this suicide mission, then?”

“I don’t know. I still have to ask around, see who else is willing to come,” Aldaron said. “But hopefully we can leave by tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Dorian asked in surprise.

“Before I loose my nerve,” Aldaron offered him a weak smile. It certainly wasn’t the most ideal plan, but he had high hopes. Kill enough dragons and surely nothing would be frightening anymore. Not even nightmares.

 

* * *

 

This was quite obviously the worst idea that Aldaron had ever had. Fight a dragon. What sort of person thought that was a good idea? The Inquisitor, apparently. And The Iron Bull. And Sera. In fact, Dorian seemed to be the only person here who realized what a terrible idea this was.

Well, the dragon certainly wasn’t happy about any of this, either. Dorian was just glad he was able to stand back, but he kept losing sight of Aldaron as the elf dodged between legs the size of tree trunks, spun out of the way of claws as long as his arm, slipped under tail and wings and sliced into flesh whenever there was an opening.

It was terrifying and exhilarating.

And actually he could see why people did this for fun.

Nerve wracking though it was every time the dragon turned its gaze on him, or every time he lost sight of his lover among the beast’s limbs, the adrenaline rush was something else. And when the massive creature was brought down – wings torn and bleeding, one forelimb unable to support its weight, roaring in pain and fury as Bull lodged his axe in its neck – he was marginally disappointed that it was over.

And they were all alive. They killed a dragon, and they were all still alive. Dorian actually laughed aloud because that was such a ridiculous thought, and yet here they were. Sera was already running forward, no doubt to kick the poor beast’s carcass or something equally childish. Dorian made his way down toward the corpse at a more dignified pace, but he was rather fascinated to see the thing up close. Very few people had the opportunity to see a dragon up close.

“Dorian!” The mage had been to busy staring at the corpse in fascination, and was startled by Aldaron’s sudden shout. He looked up to see the Inquisitor running toward him around the curve of the dragon’s now-limp tail. The elf was covered head to toe in blood and dirt and things that Dorian would rather not think about. But he was grinning; eyes alight and clearly unbothered by the filth that covered him.

“No, no, no,” Dorian breathed in horror when he realized what Aldaron intended, and he held his arms up to hold his lover back. “No hugs!” the elf slowed to a stop in front of him and looked confused. “You’re filthy!”

Aldaron looked down at himself as though realizing this for the first time. And maybe he was, the elf always seemed to get himself covered in something unsanitary. When he raised his gaze again he was grinning innocently, “I found an artery,” he explained, and wiped the back of his hand across his face, which only served to smear the blood more across his cheek. Disgusting. “But we did it, Dorian!”

Dorian wasn’t sure he had ever seen Aldaron smile this much before. He was practically vibrating with excitement. It was almost painful not to embrace him, but just once Dorian would like to leave Skyhold and not completely ruin all of his clothes. Just once. “We did,” he confirmed, and offered Aldaron a smile of his own. “You’re not hurt?”

The Inquisitor shook his head, still grinning. “But…” the smile slipped a bit and he reached up to take one of the daggers from his back, “I broke my knife.” Sure enough, the blade that he showed Dorian was snapped clean off a few inches from the hilt. “It got stuck in a bone, I think.”

If Dorian wasn’t mistaken he’d been using those same daggers since becoming Inquisitor, the previous ones lost at Haven, and was rather attached to them. “I’m certain Harritt will be happy to make you new ones,” Dorian assured him. “Perhaps out of all this dragon bone,” he added, gesturing to their vanquished foe, “Then you won’t have to worry about it next time.”

“Next time?” Aldaron asked, grin back in place and eyes wide with hope.

Dorian sighed. “Not that I’m encouraging you to become a dragon hunter,” he insisted quickly. “But perhaps this didn’t go quite as badly as I’d feared.”

“You had fun,” Aldaron teased.

“Nonsense,” Dorian denied haughtily. “Don’t mistake me for one of you bloodthirsty savages. I’m only here to make sure you don’t get your fool self eaten.”

Aldaron chuckled softly and Dorian’s heart flipped in his chest. Still such a rare sound, but surely a sign that his lover was improving. “Dorian can I kiss you?” the elf asked suddenly. “I won’t get any blood on your clothes I promise.”

Dorian looked down at his lover, at the hopeful look in his eyes and the stupid grin on his face, and even covered in filth he was gorgeous. How could he possibly deny Aldaron anything when he looked like that? He wanted so bad to keep him looking this happy forever. The only people here to see them already knew about their relationship and didn’t seem to care, so what was stopping him other than concern for his wardrobe? “Oh, alright,” he relented with a long-suffering sigh to cover up the skipping of his heart, and leaned down to kiss his giddy lover. It lasted only a moment before they were quite rudely interrupted by a loud whistle, followed by a series of catcalls that turned Dorian’s face red and caused him to pull away quickly. From several feet away Sera and Bull were leering at them, then Bull made a decidedly filthy hand gesture that made Dorian’s cheeks turn even redder. “Oh mind your own business!” he snapped and turned away in a huff to begin trudging back to the fort. But Aldaron’s laughter was still ringing in his ears so it was difficult to be too angry.

 

* * *

 

The trip back to Skyhold was uneventful and filled with campfire reenactments of their fight (performed mostly by Sera with Bull as the dragon). Aldaron smiled easily, and laughed on occasion, and that made it incredibly difficult for Dorian to be annoyed by the constant ribbing of their companions about their relationship.

But although Aldaron smiled and laughed during the day, he still did not sleep. He was awake at Dorian’s side when the man fell asleep at night, and there still when Dorian woke again. Sometimes he was snuggled close to Dorian, holding him tight with eyes closed though he had never fallen asleep. At other times he was sitting up, restlessly sharpening his one remaining dagger or mending a hole in his leathers.

So killing a dragon hadn’t cured him of his fears after all, not entirely. But it had done something. There was an obvious change.

The Inquisitor was smiling as they rode back into Skyhold, happily announcing the success of their mission to his awaiting advisors. Dorian parted ways with him in the courtyard to find himself a hot bath and change of clothes. Somewhere along the way Dorian realized he should be happy with any sort of progress from his lover. A smiling, laughing, happy Aldaron who couldn’t sleep was still better than the miserable, paranoid Aldaron he’d known since Adamant. Baby steps, he told himself. He couldn’t expect everything to get better overnight.

When he came downstairs for dinner the Inquisitor was nowhere to be found, and the word around the hall was that he’d joined some sort of celebration at the tavern, so that was where Dorian went, and that was where Dorian found him. The whole place was even more raucous than usual. Clearly everyone here considered dragon slaying a good excuse to get drunk, and Dorian couldn’t disagree. He spotted the Inquisitor at the bar, seated beside The Iron Bull and listing heavily to one side.

“There you are!”

Dorian’s voice cut through the fog of alcohol that had settled over Aldaron’s mind. He looked up, and his face lit up like the mage was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. “Dorian!”

The man in question paused, stared at the elf, brow furrowed a little, and then smirked. “Are you drunk, Inquisitor?” he asked, highly amused.

“I can’t feel my throat!” Aldaron announced happily. That was mildly concerning.

“That’s how you know it’s working,” The Iron Bull guffawed, slammed his own empty tankard down on the bar.

“Drinking without me, I should be offended,” Dorian sniffed, “And what swill has this brute been serving you?” He reached down and plucked the cup from Aldaron’s fingers to sniff at the contents, then made a face. What was that smell? He couldn’t even describe it, and it definitely shouldn’t be attached to something edible.

“It’s better when you can’t taste it,” Aldaron assured him, his words a little slurred.

“Or smell it, I imagine,” Dorian replied, and set the cup back down. Then he slid into the seat beside Aldaron’s and signaled the barkeep to bring him a drink as well. Something that wasn’t whatever this was. He wasn’t sure he could survive that. “It’s not often the Inquisitor gets shitfaced, what’s the occasion? What are we drinking to?”

“Dragons!” Bull roared, refilled his tankard and took another drink.

“Really bad drinks!” Aldaron laughed.

“It really is no fun being the least drunk person in the room,” Dorian bemoaned as his own drink arrived. Ferelden beer. Charming. Well, if it was to be a night of ‘really bad drinks’ he was in good company.

“Dorian!” Aldaron said suddenly, and grabbed the man’s hand, looking at him like he had news that would rock the foundations of the world. “I killed a dragon,” he said very seriously.

Dorian laughed. “Yes, amatus, I know. I was there.”

“A dragon, Dorian,” Aldaron emphasized. “A huge one!” He gestured wildly in an attempt to indicate the dragon’s size.

Dorian laughed again and looked down to find his cup empty, though he barely remembered drinking it. “It was very impressive,” he replied. “We’re all very impressed.”

Aldaron beamed under the praise and raised his cup to his lips again. The drink sent him into a brief coughing fit and his eyes watered slightly. He had been leaning heavily on one arm, which Dorian realized was probably the only thing keeping up upright, but now moved to lean against Dorian’s shoulder instead. Dorian tensed a moment, afraid of allowing such intimate contact with so many people around, but he couldn’t very well push Aldaron off of him without sending the elf onto the floor.

“How many of those have you had?” Dorian asked in concern. Aldaron didn’t have much alcohol tolerance to begin with, and whatever Bull had been plying him with was obviously strong.

“Uh…” Aldaron frowned, raised a hand before his face and began counting on his fingers. He reached four before seeming to reach an impasse. “This many?” he asked. Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten the word ‘four’ or if he wasn’t sure how many drinks.

“You might wanna get him to bed before he passes out here,” the bartender advised wisely as he took away both Dorian and Aldaron’s empty cups. Dorian might have protested in favor of getting himself properly drunk as well, but Aldaron had just put a hand on his thigh and turned his head just enough that Dorian could feel his breath hot against his neck. Bed sounded like a great idea. Sleep, less so, but definitely bed.

“Alright then,” Dorian stood up carefully, a hand on Aldaron’s shoulder to keep him from falling over. “Let’s do this while you can still walk.” The Inquisitor looked up at him in confusion, even as Dorian pulled the elf’s arm around his shoulders to get him upright.

“Where are we going?” Aldaron asked, stumbling a little as Dorian pulled him away from the bar and began leading him through the crowd.

“Back to your rooms, Inquisitor,” Dorian replied.

“To my… Oh!” Aldaron gasped animatedly, and then smiled to himself and wrapped his other arm around Dorian’s shoulders as well.  “You’re coming too?”

“That is the idea, yes,” Dorian confirmed, chuckling softly. He managed to lead Aldaron across the courtyard, up the stairs, and through the main hall with little difficulty, but by the time they reached the first door to the Inquisitor’s quarters Aldaron was dragging his feet and his hands were beginning to wander. When the door was closed and they had a measure of privacy Aldaron stopped entirely and pulled Dorian down to kiss him. He tasted like whatever foul concoction he’d been drinking. “You’ll be much more comfortable doing this in bed, amatus,” Dorian said, reluctantly pulling away from the kiss and beginning to drag Aldaron toward the stairs. The elf whined in protest, but let Dorian continue to lead him the rest of the way up to his quarters.

“I think Bull wants to have sex with a dragon,” Aldaron announced as they passed the last door to his quarters.

“There’s an image I could have lived without,” Dorian shuddered. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

Aldaron giggled – actually giggled – and as soon as they reached the top of the stairs and the bed was in sight he seemed much more interested in walking. He grabbed Dorian by the collars of his shirt and kissed him again, stumbling over his feet and nearly bringing them both to the floor before they even made it to the bed, where he collapsed laughing into the pillows. “If that was your idea of seduction it needs some help,” Dorian complained fondly. The sad part was that it was working.

“Come here,” Aldaron demanded between stifled giggles, holding his arms out toward Dorian.

“As you command, Inquisitor,” Dorian replied as he let Aldaron pull him down onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then they banged.
> 
> This chapter did not want to write itself, so it kinda sucks. Sorry.


	15. Relapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back.

Aldaron woke with a herd of druffalo stampeding through his skull and his mouth feeling as though he’d eaten sand. He tried to crack his eyes open, but immediately regretted it. Light was streaming in through the high windows and it pierced into his eyes like being stabbed. Groaning in misery, Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut again and pressed his face into the pillows below him. Everything hurt.

Distantly, beyond the pounding of his head, Aldaron heard someone moving around the room, and then he heard a voice from somewhere above him. “Ah, have you rejoined the land of the living?” That was Dorian’s voice, which would normally put Aldaron in a good mood but right now he felt like death warmed over. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Instead he pulled the pillow over his head to block out as much of the world as possible. “That bad, huh?” Dorian sounded slightly amused. Beside him the mattress dipped slightly as Dorian sat down and lifted the corner of the pillow enough to see Aldaron’s face. The elf squeezed his eyes shut tighter and weakly swatted at Dorian’s hand. “If you hadn’t started drinking without me I imagine I’d be in much the same boat,” he commented. “Come out of there.”

“No,” Aldaron protested. His voice sounded terrible even to his own ears. His mouth was dry and his throat raw.

“I brought you tea,” Dorian said encouragingly, “As I am the most considerate and sympathetic lover the world has ever seen. It will make you feel better, I promise.”

Aldaron groaned. Tea actually sounded fantastic right now, if only to soothe his throat, but he really didn’t want to move. “Can’t you magic it better?”

“If only,” Dorian sighed regretfully, “Unfortunately I’m absolute rubbish at healing, so you’ll have to make do with the tea. It does help. I know from experience. But you do have to sit up to drink it.”

“Can’t,” Aldaron whined and tried to swat Dorian’s hand away again to pull the pillow back over his face.

“Rubbish,” Dorian scoffed, “Of course you can. At least open your eyes so you can look at my beautiful face.”

Aldaron whined again, but did as he was asked. He was indeed greeted by the sight of Dorian peering down at him. The man had already dressed and styled his hair. How long had he been up? “What time is it?” Aldaron groaned.

“Well past eight bells,” Dorian informed him, “Probably close to nine now.” He pried the pillow out of Aldaron’s weak grasp and tossed it aside, much to the elf’s dismay. The sun was still far too bright, it made his head hurt even more. But was it really that late already? Aldaron had never slept that late in his entire life. He was always up with the sun, even when he could sleep properly. “Now, sit up,” Dorian instructed, and reached for a cup on the bedside table. Aldaron struggled slightly upright and leaned back against the headboard. “Drink this. It tastes absolutely foul but… Well with how much of that Qunari swill you drank last night I imagine you’ve destroyed your sense of taste.”

Accepting the cup that was pressed into his hands, Aldaron stared down at the steaming contents. Sitting up had set his stomach roiling, and he wasn’t certain he could swallow anything without throwing up. “What is this?” he asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

“Mostly elfroot,” Dorian answered. “Alright, it’s entirely elfroot. You’re mad about that stuff, so drink up.”

Aldaron sighed in resignation and raised the cup to his lips. He downed the contents of the cup in two huge swallows. It was unbearably bitter, but soothed his throat going down. Face twisted in disgust, he held the empty cup back out to Dorian.

“I told you it was foul,” Dorian said. He took the cup and placed it back on the side table. “But you should start to feel better soon. And there’s more good news.”

“What?” Aldaron asked, wishing Dorian had brought something to wash down the tea.

“You slept through the night,” the man told him with a smile.

Aldaron stared at him for a long moment as realization slowly dawned on him that Dorian was right. It was morning now. Late in the morning. He hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night, he hadn’t had any nightmares. For the first time in nearly a month he had slept soundly for more than a couple hours. “I… I did,” he breathed in disbelief. What did that mean? Were the nightmares finally going to stop? Could he finally go back to having a normal life? (Whatever normal looked liked since the Inquisition.) “I didn’t have any nightmares,” he said, a smile slowly spreading over his face.

“I’m glad,” Dorian replied. He leaned forward to kiss Aldaron softly, a gesture the elf gladly accepted, disappointed when Dorian pulled away all too soon. “You taste like elfroot,” the man said.

“It’s your fault,” Aldaron complained.

“If you hadn’t gotten drunk, then you wouldn’t have a hangover and need the tea,” Dorian pointed out, “So I think you’ll find it’s not my fault at all.”

“I’ll remember that next time you have a hangover,” Aldaron frowned and slumped down in bed again. The tea was helping a little bit, but he still felt bad. “What kind of mage can’t cure a headache? Useless.”

 “That’s not the tune you were singing last night,” Dorian leered, “In fact, I remember quite a bit of praise coming from you. It’s a good thing your rooms are so far removed from the rest of the castle or—,” he didn’t get to finish the sentence as Aldaron hit him in the face with a pillow, cheeks red with embarrassment. But the man merely laughed off the attack, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease while you’re suffering,” he said sympathetically. “Drink the rest of your tea before it goes cold.” He gestured to the bedside table, where Aldaron’s empty cup sat next to a small teapot that he hadn’t noticed before.

The elf groaned and rolled away from him. “Just leave me to die,” he grumbled.

 

* * *

 

Hangover aside, finally having a full night’s sleep put the Inquisitor in an undeniably good mood for the rest of the day. He felt like a person again. Rested and happy and not broken. Normal, competent, like everyone else. Like he was supposed to be. It was a good feeling. And his good mood was apparently noticeable to everyone around him also. Dagna commented on it when he went to the undercroft first thing to see about replacing his broken dagger (apologizing profusely for its untimely demise), but he felt a bit like a giddy child as they planned out uses for the dragon bone he’d brought back. Then he spent the rest of the morning in the garden, helping the herbalist tend to the plants, something he wished he could do more often. It reminded him of home, which drove him to the tavern for lunch in search of friendly companionship away from the judgmental eyes of visiting nobles. And that, of course, only served to improve his mood even more.

It had been a good day. A very good day. The best in a long time. And when Aldaron joined his companions for dinner that evening he could hardly stop smiling. This didn’t go unnoticed, either.

“I heard a rumor,” Dorian practically purred as he slid into the seat beside Aldaron’s.

“Was it about my love life?” Aldaron asked.

“Surprisingly, no,” Dorian replied. “Rather it said that you were responsible for the… incident in Lady Montilyet’s office this afternoon. I was, of course, shocked and offended on your behalf. Our dear, beloved Inquisitor would never be involved in such crass and juvenile behavior.”

“Thank you for defending my honor,” Aldaron said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And?” Dorian asked, and the smile he offered in return was knowing. Damn him. Too perceptive for his own good.

Well, the others seemed enraptured by whatever story Varric was telling and weren’t paying attention to him or Dorian. “And it was Sera’s idea,” the Inquisitor answered curtly, a little afraid of Dorian’s reaction.

“With which you had absolutely no involvement whatsoever? You merely stood back and watched?” Dorian asked. Aldaron had worried that Dorian would disapprove, but the man didn’t sound mad. He sounded amused.

“I carried the bucket,” Aldaron admitted quietly.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said. “But your secret is safe with me, amatus.”

“Thank you,” Aldaron smiled despite himself. It had been nice to do something fun, something childish, for a change. He felt more like himself than he had in a long time, and he was glad that Dorian didn’t disapprove. In hindsight he probably shouldn’t have been concerned; it was the sort of thing that the mage might appreciate.

“Though now I’m wondering if this will become a habit, and if I should be concerned for my own wellbeing,” Dorian continued. “I’m also wondering what brought about this sudden influx of rebellious behavior. Not that I don’t approve, mind you. In fact I think I rather like this new side of you.”

Dorian likely had nothing to worry about. Aldaron would never consider doing anything that might upset the man too much. Certainly he would never dream of ruining Dorian’s carefully styled appearance in public. He doubted the man would ever forgive him. But he’d had fun that morning with Sera, and he definitely wouldn’t turn down the offer again. So Dorian might not be entirely safe. “Did you know we’re the same age?” he asked instead.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Dorian replied, “Are you?”

Aldaron nodded, “Apparently.” Sera was so evasive when talking about herself that she might have been lying, but somehow he doubted it. “This is… The sort of thing I might have been doing now if… if none of this had ever happened,” he commented, gesturing to the room at large. If he was back with his clan and had none of the Inquisitor’s pressing worries and responsibilities. Of course, judging from the last few letters his clan was hardly living worry-free at the moment.

“Ah, feeling homesick, then?” Dorian asked sympathetically. Aldaron merely nodded in reply, knowing that Dorian understood. They were both far from home, although he imagined the Inquisition was less of a jarring change for the mage than it had been for a Dalish elf. “Shall I distract you with ribald tales of Tevinter excess?”

Aldaron chuckled softly. He knew full well that Dorian’s own way to keep from feeling homesick was to tell deprecating tales of his homeland as though trying to convince himself that it was a terrible place. But Aldaron would be lying if he said he didn’t find the stories terribly entertaining, although a little outrageous. “I would love that,” he replied.

 

* * *

  
It was still dark when Aldaron woke, moonlight flooding into the room. He was trembling and sweating, images still vivid in his mind and behind his eyelids whenever he blinked. He felt Dorian pressed against his back, breath warm against the back of his neck and arm heavy across his waist. That was what assured him he was awake, that he wasn’t still dreaming, but it was small comfort.

Carefully pulling away from Dorian, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and raked a hand through his hair. Why was this still happening? He’d thought it was over, and that just made it worse knowing he hadn’t made any progress at all.

What an idiot he was. And how pathetic to still be so badly effected a full month later. Absolutely pathetic. Aldaron hung his head and took a deep breath, biting back tears that stemmed more from frustration than fear. He was supposed to be brave. ‘Herald of Andraste’; Inquisitor. How was he supposed to save the world when he couldn’t even save one man from one damned demon? When the memory of it and the fear of every possible future failure haunted even his waking hours?

Behind him the sheets rustled and the mattress dipped, but Aldaron was still startled enough to jump when Dorian’s voice – soft and rough and still half asleep – cut through the silence in the room. “Amatus? Are you alright?”

Aldaron tried to school his expression into something more passive so that he could turn around and assure Dorian that he’d just gotten up for a drink of water, or to stoke the fire, something simple, something normal. He couldn’t bear to see that worried, sympathetic expression on his face. He didn’t want any more of Dorian’s pity. But try as he might Aldaron could not get the mask to stick. It had been getting harder and harder to put up that careful, unaffected façade. But he’d been lax lately, letting it slip more often, allowing more and more people to see the real him.

“Amatus?” Dorian asked again when Aldaron was silent for too long. He laid a hand gently, comfortingly on Aldaron’s shoulder, but Aldaron was not in the mood to be comforted.

“Don’t,” he said curtly, shrugging the hand away.

“What’s wrong?” Aldaron could hear the concern in Dorian’s voice. He could picture the exact expression on his face, the way his brows knit together and the corners of his mouth quirked down. Why was he still here? Why did he care so much? Why did he put up with so much? Aldaron was nothing but a pathetic, frightened, useless child. He was terrible at leadership, even worse at politics, and compared to Dorian he was dumb as a rock. Dorian would probably be much better at this job than he was, Aldaron realized bitterly. “Amatus, talk to me.”

Aldaron shook his head, fisted his hands in the thin fabric of his sleep pants. “Just leave me alone,” he breathed. He didn’t want to talk about it. He was tired of talking about it, even if he’d never actually told Dorian the contents of his nightmares. Talking didn’t help.

“Aldaron, please—,”

“I said leave me alone!” Aldaron snapped, voice cracking. He stood up abruptly and began heading for the balcony. He needed air.

“I want to help,” Dorian protested.

“Maybe I don’t want your help!” Aldaron rounded on him, fists clenched at his sides, voice thick with emotion. “Maybe you can’t help me! What has it done so far? Nothing. Nothing’s changed at all.” That wasn’t what he meant to say, not at all. He was incredibly grateful for everything Dorian had done, but he was so frustrated with himself. He felt so weak, so pathetic, and no one understood and everyone expected him to be fine. Everyone else was fine. So what was wrong with him? “This is my life now. The rest of my damned life I’ll be this pathetic, useless--,”

“You’re not--,”

“Don’t!” Aldaron shouted. He knew what Dorian wanted to say. All those hollow reassurances he’d said a hundred times before. Aldaron may have believed them before, but not today. He felt hopeless, like there would never be any escape from this nightmare. Words wouldn’t fix him. “Just… Don’t,” he finished weakly, and before Dorian had a chance to say anything further he fled out to the balcony, slamming the door behind him.

The chill night air hit him like a slap in the face, but Aldaron welcomed it as he gasped in a deep breath and leaned against the railing. He turned his gaze down at the fortress below him. Skyhold was silent and empty at this time of night, except a handful of guards patrolling the wall tops.

He was not outside for long before he heard the door open and soft footsteps as Dorian followed him out. “Of course I can’t help if you never tell me what’s wrong,” the man accused.

He sounded angry. Good, let him be angry. Aldaron had had enough of concern and pity. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped without looking up.

“Of course you don’t,” Dorian scoffed, “You never want to talk about it. How can I help if I don’t even know what’s wrong?”

“This isn’t about you, Dorian!” Aldaron barked.

“You can’t say that I’m not involved in this,” the man protested. “I’m doing my best, but you aren’t giving me much to work with.”

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” Aldaron bit out in frustration.

“Maybe you should stop being so damn stubborn,” Dorian shot back. “You’re absolutely impossible sometimes.”

Aldaron spun around to face him again, “If that’s how you feel then maybe you should just leave!” No, that wasn’t what he wanted at all, and he could see the shock and the hurt on Dorian’s face as the words hit him.

The hurt was quickly replaced by anger, though. “Fine,” Dorian said curtly. “I can see where I’m not wanted. I’ll leave you alone, Inquisitor,” he spat the title like a curse and turned on his heel, storming back into the bedroom.

It hurt to watch him walk away. Aldaron very nearly went after Dorian, but he stopped himself. Perhaps it was better this way. Push Dorian away and go back to pretending to be someone he was not. Maybe it had been a bad idea to let him in, to let himself be himself. It was easier to have no feelings at all than to be like this. It would be better for Dorian, too, he told himself. The man deserved so much more than what Aldaron could give him. He deserved someone who wasn’t broken.

He stayed out on the balcony until his teeth were chattering from the cold, and only then did he venture back inside. Dorian was gone, and with him his clothes and even the book he had been reading before they went to bed. Aldaron crawled, shivering, into the empty bed, long bereft of warmth, and wrapped himself up in the blankets. He simultaneously wished that Dorian was here and was glad to be alone. He’d have to get used to sleeping alone again. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about closing the window.

 

* * *

  
Dorian was annoyed, frustrated, and hurt as he dressed quickly and stormed out of the Inquisitor’s quarters. At least it was the middle of the night and there was no one around to see him. He fumed all the way back to his own room and slammed the door so loud it likely woke his neighbors. Of all the stubborn, pig-headed people in the world the Inquisitor was the worst. It was as though he wanted to be miserable, and yet he whined about it constantly. Whined about how no one could help him when the elf was too damn proud to even let on that something was bothering him. And he hid his troubles so well that half the time even Dorian wasn’t certain what was going on in his head.

He had begun pacing up and down the length of the room, stewing in his anger until it had all fizzled out. Until he had gone through every insult he knew, raged against every tiny annoyance that the Inquisitor had ever caused, and decried the pride and stubbornness of elves everywhere. Until there was nothing left but the hurt; the familiar deep ache of being pushed away and thrown out by someone that he cared about and whom he thought cared about him. Only it was worse this time. Worse than all the one night stands in his past that had left or unceremoniously thrown him out. It was worse because this time he’d actually let himself believe that Aldaron wanted him.

And yet some part of him was arguing of course he wants you, it’s not his fault. He’s scared. He’s tired. He didn’t mean it.

How long could he keep telling himself that? It was true, of course, but how long would scared and tired be acceptable excuses?

Exhausted himself, Dorian flopped back onto the bed he hadn’t slept in for weeks. The worst of it all was that even behind all the hurt he still wanted to help Aldaron. Because he remembered the smiles and the laughter of the day before, when everything had been fine and they had both thought him recovered.

Was that what had the Inquisitor so upset tonight? Was he angrier because he had thought this was over? The logical part of Dorian’s mind wondered. Dorian had certainly thought it was over, but this thing had been haunting Aldaron for weeks, and in hindsight it didn’t make sense for it to be cured so quickly.

Not that Aldaron would likely listen to anything he had to say right now. The elf had made it abundantly clear – regardless of his emotional state – that he was fed up with Dorian’s shallow attempts and comfort. That wasn’t terribly surprising, even Dorian knew he was fumbling in the dark. But what more could he do?

The mage had begun to drift off when the thought occurred to him and had him sitting bolt upright, suddenly wide awake again.

Aldaron was too stubborn and proud to ever ask for help, even though he so desperately needed it. So Dorian would just have to ask for him. The elf would probably hate him for it, but Dorian had already been thrown out of his bed so how much worse could it be? At least this time he would be prepared.

The hardest part was waiting for it to be a reasonable hour of the morning to call upon other members of the Inquisition. He barely managed to wait past sunup before leaving his room and heading to the library. Thankfully Dorian knew for a fact that Solas always took his breakfast in the rotunda at a ridiculous hour of the morning.

“Solas,” he greeted pleasantly upon stepping into the room. Praise the Maker for this elf’s incredibly predictable routine. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

The apostate looked positively shocked to see Dorian, which on another day would have given him no end of amusement, but today Dorian was a man on a mission. “It is unusual for you to be about this early,” Solas commented. “You must be missing your beauty sleep.”

Dorian ignored the dig at his habits for now. “Solas, if I were more beautiful the Maker himself would be jealous, so I must take a day off occasionally. But that’s not why I’m here. I… find myself in need of your advice.”

“That is even more unusual,” Solas replied, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“Yes, yes,” Dorian wasn’t in the mood for their usual petty arguments. This was important. “Alert the Chantry, they’ll proclaim a holiday. The day Dorian Pavus asked for help,” he brushed it off with a wave of his hand. “If we could get on with the important business? This is a matter of some delicacy, in fact. I trust you can be… discrete?”

“Is this about the Inquisitor?” Solas asked. The surprise must have shown on Dorian’s face because the elven mage continued without waiting for an answer. “The two of your have not been particularly discrete yourselves. Still, I was surprised when I learned of your relationship.”

“I didn’t come here for romantic advice, if that’s what you think,” Dorian said quickly. Not that he thought Solas had any to offer in the first place. “Rather…” he paused, considering how best to word this. “The Inquisitor has not been sleeping. Since Adamant he has been plagued by nightmares of what happened to us in the Fade. This is when he manages to sleep at all, of course, and often his fear of having another nightmare will keep him awake all night. It is effecting him rather badly. Not just the fatigue, but his emotional state has become somewhat erratic.” He hadn’t meant to say so much, but once he began Dorian could not stop himself. “I am concerned,” what a gross understatement, and now he was pacing again, “that this may begin to effect his health. I have done all I can to help, but short of drugging him to sleep every night there is little I can think of. So I thought you, expert on dreaming and the Fade and all, might be able to help where I cannot.”

“Why hasn’t he come to see me about this?” Solas asked. His brow was lined with confusion, and perhaps a little concern.

“The stubborn fool doesn’t want anyone to know,” Dorian said in frustration, “I imagine he doesn’t even want me to know, but, well, after punching someone in your sleep it’s hard to deny. He’s convinced himself that no one will respect him if they know he’s afraid of demons the size of houses, or whatever it is that keeps him awake. Which is ridiculous, but don’t try to tell him that.”

“You don’t know the contents of these nightmares?” Solas asked curiously.

“He refuses to talk about it no matter how often I ask,” Dorian confirmed.

“Speaking about your fears is often the first step toward overcoming them,” Solas commented.

“I have told him as much,” Dorian grumbled, “But it doesn’t change a thing.” He sighed and slumped down on the sofa at the side of the room, forcing himself to stop pacing. It was so frustrating.

Still seated at the table Solas was silent for a long moment, lost in thought Dorian supposed. If Solas didn’t have any answers then he really wouldn’t know what to do. “If he refuses to speak of it, then that does make this more complicated. However, there may be some way to help him. You’re right to worry about his health. I imagine the changes in his mood you’ve experienced are already a side effect of sleep deprivation. It’s only a matter of time before it effects his physical health as well.”

“If this is you helping--,” Dorian began in annoyance, but was cut off.

“Have you considered if lucid dreaming might help?”

Dorian frowned a bit, “Can a non-mage even do that?”

“Yes,” Solas confirmed, “Although it may be more difficult for him to learn. If he were able, he could change the subject matter of his dreams to something less upsetting. You’ve said he is sometimes afraid to sleep because of these nightmares. If he knows that he can stop them, it might solve the problem.”

“That is a thought,” Dorian considered it hopefully. It might work. At the moment, however, he wasn’t certain if Aldaron would even speak to him.

“Or, if he would allow it,” Solas continued, interrupting Dorian’s thoughts, “I could attempt to seek him out in the Fade and find out exactly what is plaguing him.”

“I don’t think he would allow it,” Dorian said regretfully. That was, in fact, the best idea yet. “I imagine he will hate me utterly when he finds out I’ve spoken to you at all.” Not that Aldaron had given him much choice. “But I can’t keep sitting idly by while he destroys himself like this.”

“If this is as bad as you say it’s remarkable that he’s kept it hidden so long,” Solas commented.

“That’s what he does best: hides his feelings from the world. Our great, fearless Inquisitor,” Dorian muttered bitterly. Maybe if Aldaron wasn’t so good at pretending to be someone else it wouldn’t be a problem. And to think, Dorian had thought the Inquisitor was finally letting down some of his walls around other people. “But I will think about what you’ve said,” he sighed, and forced himself back up to his feet. “It may do some good.” It certainly couldn’t make things worse, and at this point Dorian was willing to try anything.  

He was wrong, of course. Things could always get worse, and Dorian really should have learned that by this point in his life because it was a recurring theme.

It was well into the afternoon when the Inquisitor showed up at Dorian’s usual nook in the library. The mage had been avoiding him all day, expecting the elf was still angry and unsure how to approach him.

Aldaron offered no greeting as he walked up to Dorian, his face carefully blank. “You told Solas?” he demanded.

Dorian was taken aback. “What-?”

“You told him about the nightmares,” Aldaron accused. His voice was carefully low to avoid being overheard, but the fury in it was unmistakable. “I told you I didn’t want anyone else to know.”

“I was trying to help,” Dorian said defensively. And he had foolishly assumed that Solas would keep their conversation private.

“I don’t want your help,” the Inquisitor seethed quietly. “And I certainly don’t need you going behind my back to do it.”

“Aldaron,” Dorian began to protest, but was cut off again.

“I’ll be leaving for Emprise du Lion in two days,” the Inquisitor said curtly. “You are no longer coming. I’ll be taking Solas in your stead. At least I can trust him to be honest with me.

And then he was gone, turning on his heel and storming off back down the stairs. Dorian could do nothing but stare helplessly at his retreating back.


	16. Heartfelt

It took only two days on the road for Aldaron to regret everything he had said and done. With his emotions tempered by time and distance the Inquisitor realized that he had overreacted. He shouldn’t have taken out his frustration on Dorian, and he shouldn’t have been so angry at the man for trying to help. Yes, Dorian had gone behind his back, done exactly what Aldaron had told him not to, but hadn’t Aldaron done the same thing before? He’d gone against Dorian’s wishes to get back his birthright because he thought it was the right thing to do.

He also realized how much he’d gotten used to Dorian’s near constant presence at his side, how much he had come to rely on the man. When he woke up in the middle of the night, panic tight in his chest, Dorian was always there. The man didn’t even have to wake up – and unless Aldaron’s nightmares turned violent he rarely did – the simple solid actuality of another body pressed against his own was enough to bring Aldaron’s mind back to reality.

Not to mention it was absolutely freezing here. Winter had hit this region early and hard. Dorian would have complained endlessly, but he also would have been a warm body at night to help stave off the chill. But instead Aldaron had only his bedroll to keep him warm, and it was hardly sufficient.

 Solas knew now, so there was no sense in hiding it from him. Much as he was loath to admit it at first, Dorian had been right. If anyone could help him escape from these endless nightmares and come to terms with what had happened in the Fade it was Solas. That didn’t make it any easier to ask, however.

“How much did Dorian tell you?” was the first thing he asked. When it was first revealed to him Aldaron had been too angry – betrayed – to consider such a question. Now that he had cooled down he realized that he might not have the entire picture.

“Very little, in fact,” Solas replied. “He told me that you have had trouble sleeping since you walked physically in the Fade, and that you have suffered nightmares, though would not tell me their form. He seemed concerned about your health.”

Concerned about his health. Was he really? Why hadn’t Aldaron noticed? Actually, he knew that. Aldaron had been so wrapped up in himself lately that he had barely spared a thought for Dorian's feelings. He was bad at that, wasn’t he? He got selfish when he was upset, and then Dorian paid the price. Selfish when he wasn’t upset, also. Since Crestwood he’d been so happy just to be happy, felt more like himself than he had since before this whole mess started, and had for the first time embraced the friendships forming around him. And he had forgotten all about Dorian, who had been the first one to worm his way past Aldaron’s rigidly fortified walls to begin weakening his defenses. He had gone to the man only when there was no one else to entertain him, clung to the familiarity of his presence without engaging.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Aldaron said, more to himself than to Solas.

“Perhaps not,” Solas replied noncommittally. “He came to me seeking a way to help you. I would be glad to offer what knowledge I have, if that’s what you want.”

Aldaron hesitated. This was the hard part, actually asking for help and admitting that he needed it. “I thought I would be over it by now,” he murmured instead of giving a proper answer. “I should be over it by now.” Everyone else seemed to be.

“We cannot control how our minds deal with such trying circumstances,” Solas commented. “For some people it is easier than for others to overcome fear and grief.”

And apparently Aldaron was one of the latter. “If you have any advice… I would be glad to hear it,” he requested with some difficulty. He wasn’t getting better on his own. Dorian was right, he needed help, but that didn’t make it any easier to ask. He was still afraid of what people would think. Would they lose faith in him? Would they think him weak?

“It would help if I knew specifically what is bothering you,” Solas replied. He didn’t sound judgmental, but the elven mage was always difficult to read. “The nightmares, what do they consist of?”

Aldaron did not answer right away. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Letting people know exactly what frightened him, like showing off all of his weaknesses to the world. “I… keep remembering what happened in the Fade,” he replied vaguely. Half the truth, if even that much.

“I have read the reports,” Solas nodded thoughtfully. “I rather wish I had been there as well, it must have been fascinating. Although I imagine you don’t feel the same way,” he added at the look of distaste that crossed the Inquisitor’s face.

“It was horrible,” Aldaron said quietly. Not fascinating at all. Nor anything he would wish on another person. “And… unnatural. The demon it… It wanted us to be frightened, and it knew exactly how to make it happen.”

“That is the nature of demons,” Solas commented. “The one you encountered was a fear demon, and an incredibly powerful one. Even the weakest of demons may have the power to influence the minds of men. That anyone without training or experience dealing with demons and spirits could resist its influence long enough to defeat it is remarkable.”

“Is that meant to be comforting?” Aldaron asked, because it was not. “You’re saying that if I were a mage it would have been easier? How does that help me now? I’m not a mage, and I can’t go back in time to learn about demons. I do have plenty of experience killing them, however. More than some mages can claim, I imagine.”

“You’re correct, of course,” Solas admitted, “However, the demons that emerge into our world from rifts are changed from how you would encounter them in the Fade. The Nightmare was not only powerful in its own right, but you were within its realm, thereby giving it even more power over you. Given that this is your only conscious experience in the Fade, it is quite understandable that you would be wary of the realm afterwards. Perhaps if you have more experiences from which to draw on, you would be less concerned.”

‘Wary’ and ‘concerned’. Aldaron appreciated Solas’ attempts at being diplomatic, but it still felt like a massive understatement. He was not wary and concerned, he was terrified. “So what?” he asked, uncertain where the mage was headed with this explanation. “You want to introduce me to some of your nice spirit friends? Give me a nice pretty picture of the Fade to block out the one I have?”

“If that is something you would feel comfortable with, then I would be happy to assist,” Solas confirmed. “It may be difficult for a non-mage to enter the Fade and retain their self-awareness, but it has been done. I could teach you.”

It was an interesting thought. Aldaron considered the suggestion for a long moment. Part of him was petrified. He had no desire to ever venture into the Fade again, physically or otherwise. Even so, if he were aware in the moment that he was dreaming could he take control and stop the nightmare? What was more frightening: walking willingly into a place he feared more than any other until he learned to recognize it, or lying down to bed every night for the rest of his life uncertain whether or not he would be subjected to torture?

That made the decision easy. “How do we begin?”

 

* * *

  
Eleven days. That’s how long the Inquisitor was away from Skyhold. That’s how long Dorian had to wallow in his misery and heartbreak, absolutely certain that Aldaron hated him entirely and would never want anything to do with him again. Because that’s what happened to Dorian Pavus, and he’d been a fool to think this time would be any different.

Of course he had been – still was – furious at Solas. This was entirely his fault, without a doubt. When he had confronted the other mage about it however, the infuriating man had only shrugged, offered a less-than-believable apology and said “I did not think he would take the news so badly.” Even though that was exactly what Dorian had told him would happen.

He lasted only four days before he gave up pretending that nothing was wrong and decided that the best course of action was to drink himself into oblivion. It had always worked in the past. That was how Dorian found himself in the tavern, sitting at a table in the back corner with a bottle of brandy his only company.

He was already half drunk and well on his way toward oblivion when someone decided to interrupt his misery. “Wow, you look rough.”

Dorian raised bleary eyes from the glass in his hands and looked up at the figure towering over him. “What do you want?” he demanded in annoyance. “Can’t a man drink in peace?”

“Sure, if you want,” The Iron Bull replied. “But you’ve been here two hours already. The kid’s worried about you and it’s starting to creep me out.” He cocked his thumb toward the table beside Dorian’s, where Cole was sitting staring at him from under that ridiculous hat. That was rather unnerving. How long had he been there? “So either let him do his thing or go be depressed somewhere else. It’s ruining the mood.”

Dorian scoffed. So that’s how it was. Couldn’t even drink himself to death without someone being offended by it. “Fine,” he bit out, and braced his hands on the table as he stood up. He wasn’t so drunk yet that he couldn’t storm out of here with a little bit of dignity.

Bull sighed and put a massive hand on Dorian’s shoulder pushing him back down into his chair again. “Sit down, pretty boy.”

“No, I know where I’m not wanted,” Dorian protested, struggling in vain against the Qunari’s grasp. “Let me go you beast.”

“Don’t get your smalls in a twist,” Bull said, “You know he’s just going to keep following you around until you talk to him. So talk.”

Suddenly Cole was sitting right beside him. The realization was so startling Dorian nearly jumped, but he managed to control himself. “I don’t want to talk,” Dorian bit out furiously. “And if I’m such an inconvenience I’ll go find somewhere else to drown myself.”

“He wants to be sad,” Cole said suddenly in that strange thoughtful way of his. Dorian usually thought the boy fascinating, but when it was turned on him it was downright unsettling. “He wants to hurt because he thinks he deserves it. Why would you deserve it, Dorian?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian denied, though his heart froze in his chest. Of course he deserved it. For angering Aldaron, for going behind his back, for being stupid enough to think someone might actually like him for once in his life. When would he learn?

“Fight with Boss was that bad, huh?” Bull asked, and sat down heavily across from Dorian.

The mage glared at him. That really wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. “What makes you think there was a fight? There was no fight.”

“Is that why he’s out saving the world and you’re sitting here getting drunk?” Bull asked. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to stop you.”

“Good,” Dorian grumbled and poured himself another glass of brandy, which he knocked back in one swallow. He was still hoping there was a way to get out of this, but in case there wasn’t he was going to get drunk enough that he didn’t remember the conversation.

“You didn’t answer my question, Dorian,” Cole said.

“I’d hoped I had,” Dorian groaned and poured himself another drink. It was going to be a very long night with these two meddling in his affairs. He didn’t want to talk about his love life, or lack thereof. It was bad enough that everyone in the world knew he had been sleeping with the Inquisitor, he couldn’t imagine the gloating when certain individuals found out he’d gone and ruined things.

But by the time he’d emptied the bottle of brandy Dorian simply didn’t have the energy to deny anything any longer. “Stubbornest, most pig-headed elf that ever lived. Sure he hates me now,” the man bemoaned, leaning heavily against the table to stay upright. “You’d know,” he said, turning to Cole, who had been sitting there the entire time he and Bull got drunk. Bull might not be drunk. He might be faking it. Dorian wasn’t certain. “How do you read our beloved Inquisitor?” he slurred.

Cole blinked at him, and then frowned. “He’s hard. The mark is too bright, blinding out everything else.” Dorian scoffed. Of course. Just his luck they had the only mind-reader in Thedas and he couldn’t read the one person who needed it most. “But there’s so much darkness, too,” the boy continued after a moment, piquing Dorian’s interest again. “So much fear and doubt. What if I’m not good enough? Not strong enough?”

“Yes, that sounds like him,” Dorian sighed. Then he gave up on staying upright and slumped over face first on the table. A bad decision, really, the wood was disturbingly sticky against his cheek.

“I made it worse,” Cole said, voice lined with concern. “I’ll try again.”

“No, that’s alright kid,” The Iron Bull interrupted. Dorian was only half listening to them talk over his head. “I think he’s had enough for tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

Tomorrow Dorian would be smart enough to do his drinking somewhere more private.

 

* * *

  
He was in the library when the horns sounded announcing the return of the Inquisitor and his companions. Unable to help himself, Dorian moved over to the window and peered out. There was a good view of the gates from his usual haunt, and he watched as the small party rode into the courtyard and the Inquisitor swung down off his hart with ease. He looked unharmed, not that Dorian had been worried. The others looked fine as well. Good for them. See, he didn’t care for the Inquisitor any more than he cared for anyone else. And he definitely wasn’t staring at the elf as he was greeted by his advisors, already stripping off his gloves. He certainly wasn’t staring long enough to see Aldaron’s eyes drift upward toward the window he was staring out of, only to quickly move away before he could be seen.

He had much better things to do than pine after a man who didn’t want him. He had research to do; those books he had ordered had finally arrived. Time to pour himself into the only thing he was really good at: research. That would certainly keep him distracted well past dinner.

It had been a good plan, although ultimately a failure because it was difficult to ignore the Inquisitor when he was standing right in front of you.

Dorian wasn’t certain how long he had been nose deep in ancient family trees, but when the Inquisitor showed up at his nook in the library he was bathed and changed and the light from the window was beginning to dim. He cleared his throat awkwardly to draw Dorian’s attention, and the mage automatically feared the worst. This was it. This was where Aldaron politely informed him that he never wanted to associate with Dorian again. “Come to deliver the final blow?” he asked bitterly, already preparing himself for the worst.

“I’m sorry,” the elf blurted out quickly, and perhaps a bit too loudly. Dorian was so stunned that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response. “I…” Aldaron carefully lowered his voice again, shifted from foot to foot and wouldn’t meet Dorian’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry. I was… So frustrated and angry, but not at you. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, it wasn’t fair. You’ve only ever tried to help me and I’ve been so terrible to you. I understand if you hate me now, I would hate me, I’m just…” his voice cracked softly and Aldaron took a deep breath before continuing, “I’m so sorry.” By the time he finished his gaze was fixed firmly on the ground, he was wringing his hands and his shoulders were hunched as though he were trying to be invisible.

But Dorian still didn’t know what to say. He’d spent the past several days convinced that Aldaron hated him, and he had almost convinced himself to hate the elf back. This was a shockingly different reunion than the one he’d expected and he really didn’t know how to respond. Aldaron seemed genuinely regretful of everything he’d said before leaving, but he had hurt Dorian deeply. That wound wouldn’t heal overnight with just one tearful apology no matter how much Dorian’s heart ached to see Aldaron in any kind of pain. Maker, he was still head over heels, wasn’t he?

“I’m not certain if I can forgive you just yet,” Dorian replied quietly. He tried not to sound as emotional as he felt, but it was difficult. He was simultaneously relieved, angry, and confused. But this was a chance to try and fix things. He really didn’t want to lose Aldaron if any form of relationship with him could be salvaged. “Although for what it’s worth… I apologize for telling Solas.”

 Aldaron nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad you did, actually,” he admitted, surprising Dorian once again. “I… You were right. I need to talk about it. I was afraid of what you’d think of me, but… I’m ready now if… If you’re still willing. I want to talk about it.”

“I assume you’ve spoken to Solas already,” Dorian said. He couldn’t imagine what else would cause this change of heart.

Aldaron shook his head but still did not look up from the floor, “Not about the nightmares. Not really,” he replied. “I wanted to tell you first. You deserve to know.”

“I…” Dorian was surprisingly touched. Far from hating him and never wanting to see him again, Aldaron wanted to talk to him before anyone else? “Yes, I would like that,” he managed eventually. “Very much so.”

At long last Aldaron looked up from the floor and met Dorian’s eyes. He relaxed visibly, the tension flowing off him like water, but continued to wring his hands. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Can we go somewhere… more private?”

Dorian nodded and scrambled to clear up his workspace, marking his place in the various books he’d been referencing and shoving them off to the side of the table. He moved in a rush as though Aldaron would change his mind if he took too long. When he was assured that no one would come by and accidentally ruin hours – days – of hard work he turned back to Aldaron, hopeful but apprehensive. “Lead the way.”

They passed the walk up to the Inquisitor’s quarters in silence. Dorian was certain this was as nerve-wracking for Aldaron as it was for him, if not moreso, so he made no attempts at conversation.

When they finally reached the privacy of that familiar room the elf sat down at the far end of the sofa and pulled his bare feet up onto the cushions, hugging his knees to his chest. He looked so incredibly small and vulnerable; not at all the larger-than-life figure that led men into battle and performed impossible feats. And frightened, he looked frightened. Dorian sat down as well, on the opposite end of the sofa, and left a fair amount of space between them. He did not want to scare Aldaron off.

The silence persisted a long while. Aldaron sat motionless, stared out the windows across the room or at the rug below them, opened his mouth a few times to speak, and then closed it again. Dorian waited as patiently as he could manage.

Then finally the elf spoke, soft and hesitant. He told Dorian everything he could about the visions that had been haunting his sleep. He spoke about reliving in vivid detail everything that happened to them in the Fade. Sometimes everything was the same, but sometimes it was much worse. His companions lying dead at his feet – even those who hadn’t been there – and the giant spider-like demon bearing down on him until he woke screaming. It wasn’t always the Fade, though, only the violent ones. Other times his mind tormented him with images of possible future failures, where Aldaron was not strong enough to protect the people he cared about. Where his actions or inactions caused the deaths of his closest friends and loved ones – of Dorian.

Though it all Dorian remained silent and listened carefully. On several occasions he felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and embrace Aldaron, but he restrained himself. He did not want to interrupt now that Aldaron was finally opening up, but it was hard to sit by and do nothing while Aldaron bit back tears.

“And I… Just feel so weak. I feel like such a coward because I know it’s not real – _I know_ – but I’m still terrified and I can’t stop thinking about it,” Aldaron choked out at the end. “But I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me. Especially you.”

Dorian was glad that Aldaron was finally telling him all this. As painful as it was to here it must have been infinitely more painful to say aloud. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to talk about it before. And no wonder all of Dorian’s attempts at comfort had done nothing. If he had felt ill equipped to deal with all of this before, Dorian only felt more so now.

“You still believe everything that happened is your fault,” he said, unsure what else could be said at this point.

Aldaron nodded solemnly, glanced over at Dorian and then back out the window. “Wasn’t it?” he asked. “I opened the rift. I got us all stuck there. I left Stroud behind.”

“You told me the rift was an accident,” Dorian replied carefully, “Was that a lie?”

“No,” Aldaron insisted quickly, “I don’t know how I did it. We were falling and I just… I don’t even remember what I was thinking then, I panicked.”

“I don’t think a single one of us would have survived that fall,” Dorian told him. “Opening that rift, intentional or not, saved our lives.”

“I never thought about it like that,” Aldaron admitted thoughtfully.

“Yes, you opened the rift and got us stuck in the Fade,” Dorian said. “But you did it to save our lives, and that worked. I’m not saying it was the best idea in the world, but it did work. We’re not splattered on rocks in the middle of nowhere. So thank you for that.”

“But Stroud,” Aldaron protested.

“Volunteered to cover our backs, you told me,” Dorian said. “And I imagine he did that to save our lives as well. I don’t know about you, but I was exhausted by then. I’m not certain we could have held out against that thing for much longer. I expect he knew that, and Hawke knew that. You would be no good to the world at all if you died. We’d be right back at Redcliffe, wouldn’t we?”

Aldaron grimaced at the reminder of another experience Dorian imagined he would rather forget. “I can’t possibly be that important,” he protested.

“Why not? You’re the Herald of Andraste,” Dorian praised. Aldaron gave him a withering look at the use of that title. “Yes, I know how you feel about that,” he said before the elf could protest further. “The title doesn’t matter, I suppose, but the intention behind it does. You are important, Aldaron,” he said earnestly, and cautiously scooted closer to the elf. “This mark on your hand,” he reached out and took hold of Aldaron’s left hand and gently turned it palm up to see the greenish scar there. “You said yourself, you got this by your own actions. Just as everything since then has been by your own actions. No one else could do what you’ve done, amatus.” The endearment was out of his mouth before Dorian realized what he was saying, and as soon as he did he panicked a little bit. Whatever was between them now, he wasn’t certain such affections would be welcome at the moment. Just because Aldaron didn’t hate him didn’t mean the Inquisitor would be inviting him back to his bed any time soon.

Aldaron glanced over at him, but whether he had even noticed the term Dorian wasn’t certain. He certainly didn’t protest, so maybe it was alright? “Then why do I feel so…” the elf paused, searching for the right word, “Inadequate?”

“Inadequate?” Dorian repeated in disbelief.

Aldaron nodded and looked at Dorian over his knees, still hugged close to his chest. “I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time. Killing things, I’m good at that. Making important decisions, leading people? I’m terrible at it. Sometimes I think…” he stopped again and looked at his knees before continuing in a voice so quiet Dorian had to strain to hear it, “I wonder if I had died at the conclave if there would be someone more suitable in my place now.”

Dorian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What an absolutely terrifying thought. That Aldaron might have died that day along with so many others, and then Dorian would never have met him. No, he didn’t want to think about it, and he was horrified that Aldaron already had.

“Amatus,” Dorian said seriously, and again the word came out without him meaning to. It was such a habit, and all the feelings behind it were still there. He grasped the elf’s face in his hands and turned Aldaron to face him, forcing the elf to meet his gaze. “You are allowed to be overwhelmed. You’re being asked to do the impossible. The fact that you manage to pull it off and make it look easy is astounding. There is not a single person in the entire world who could have done the things you have. It positively boggles the mind that you could think otherwise. Why do you think these people follow you? Why do you think they praise your name wherever you go? They trust you, Inquisitor, and they believe in you. You _are_ a leader, Aldaron. You may not have chosen this path for yourself, but you are good at it. You care about your people, from the highest advisors to the lowest servant. You are one of the most compassionate men I have ever met. The world could do with more people like you in positions of power.”

Aldaron stared back at him, wide eyes full of shock and doubt for a long moment before they filled with barely restrained tears. “You think so?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I do,” Dorian said fervently. “And so does everyone else here. You are outstanding, Aldaron, and I’ll tell you that every day until you believe it if I need to.”

Before his very eyes Aldaron crumbled. He let his feet back down to the floor and wrapped his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. “ _Ir abelas, ‘ma’nehn_.” Elvish. That was rare. Dorian had no idea what it meant. “ _‘Ma’vhenan_ … I’m sorry,” Aldaron breathed. Dorian’s brain finally caught up with what was happening and he wrapped his arms around the elf tightly. “I should have talked to you sooner. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

“I rather hope there won’t have to be a next time,” Dorian murmured.

Aldaron let out the tiniest huff of a laugh against Dorian’s neck, and then pulled away from him just enough to look up into Dorian’s eyes. “Me too,” he agreed. “I feel awful about everything I said before. Can you ever forgive me?”

Ah, the ultimate question. To be perfectly honest Dorian wasn’t certain. He understood better now why Aldaron had been so reluctant to talk about his troubles, but that didn’t change the past. He knew that Aldaron still cared for him, but that didn’t change the week he’d spent in heartbroken misery. “The whole time you were away I was certain you hated me,” he said. “I’m very glad that you don’t, but I’m not certain I’m ready to forgive you for that.”

“I understand,” Aldaron sighed and pulled away from him, retreating back to his own side of the sofa. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Dorian. I don’t want to lose you.”

Dorian didn’t, either. If he hadn’t known it already, this past week had made that abundantly clear. If he lost Aldaron he wasn’t certain he would ever get over it. No one else would ever compare. “Why don’t we start with dinner?” he suggested, “Assuming you haven’t eaten yet.”

“I haven’t,” Aldaron replied with a half-smile.

“Good,” Dorian replied. “And you can get one of those expensive bottles of wine reserved for visiting dignitaries. Josephine has banned me from the wine cellar.”

The half-smile turned into a full one. “I think that can be arranged,” Aldaron promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ir abelas, 'ma'nehn. 'Ma'vhenan_ \- I'm sorry, my joy. My heart/my home  
>  Yeah, shower him with affections in a language he doesn't understand. Solid plan, Inquisitor.


	17. Lessons

Aldaron wasn’t entirely certain where things stood between him and Dorian now. Friends, certainly, but after they shared dinner and what Dorian assured him was an excessively expensive bottle of wine the man had gone back to his own room. Aldaron wasn’t exactly surprised, but he was disappointed. He hadn’t really been expecting them to kiss and make up just like that. Dorian had every right to be upset after how Aldaron had treated him. He should be glad that the man was speaking to him at all, not whining about having an empty bed again.

He cared for Dorian more deeply than he’d ever cared for anyone before. The depths of his emotions frightened him sometimes. He thought that Dorian felt the same. He couldn’t think of any other reason the man would stick around as long as he had, put up with as much as he had for Aldaron’s sake. But Dorian had never said anything – then again neither had Aldaron, and now he wasn’t sure at all. He’d messed everything up. Dorian didn’t hate him, but they were back at square one and Aldaron wasn’t certain how to move forward from here.

It couldn’t be as simple as doing everything the same as before, could it? Shared meals, cards, flirting that Aldaron didn’t realize was flirting until hours later.

Well, he was better at recognizing the flirting now. And not nearly as awkward and shy.

So maybe they hadn’t gone back entirely to square one.

With a sigh Aldaron fell back against the wooden roof of the stables and stared up at the clouds rolling across the sky. He always thought better outside, where the air was fresh and he could feel the wind. Unfortunately, it was nearly impossible for the Inquisitor to find privacy outside of his quarters. That was why he spent so much time in the tops of trees or on rooftops. Here he either went unnoticed or no one wanted to climb up after him. On the ground someone was always demanding his attention.

Of course it wasn’t a foolproof hiding place, especially as time went by. He was becoming predictable, and his advisors were ever so perceptive. They were learning all his usual perches. So when he heard voices drifting up from below that seemed to be talking about him, Aldaron wasn’t terribly surprised.

“Saw him climb onto the roof a couple hours ago,” that was Blackwall’s voice. Traitor. “Though he may have wandered off by now.”

“Well let’s check, shall we?” Wait. That wasn’t one of his advisors. That was Dorian’s voice. “Inquisitor?” he called from the ground below. “Are you up there?”

Unable to help himself, Aldaron sat up and moved over to the edge of the roof to peer down at the ground. They were both standing there, Dorian with his hands on his hips, looking up toward him.

“There he is,” Dorian grinned when Aldaron’s head appeared over the edge of the roof. He turned briefly to Blackwall, presumably to thank him but whatever he said was too quiet for Aldaron to hear.  The warden waved him off, spared a last look up toward the Inquisitor, and disappeared back inside the barn. “Josephine is looking for you,” Dorian called up again.

“Since when do you play messenger?” Aldaron asked, suspicious.

“Since she has asked me three times this morning where you are,” Dorian replied. “So it’s entirely selfish, I’m afraid. Will you come down so we can speak like civilized people?”

Aldaron considered it. He’d been enjoying the moment of peace and solitude, but he supposed now that he’d been found that peace wouldn’t last. This hiding spot was now compromised for at least the next several days. “I’m coming,” he called down to Dorian before beginning his very careful descent.

“Be careful,” Dorian called to him quite unnecessarily. Aldaron was always careful, and he hadn’t fallen out of a tree since he was six years old. He’d never fallen off a roof, although he hadn’t had a habit of climbing buildings until settling in at Skyhold. This wasn’t a difficult climb anyway, down onto the lower roof of the few stalls outside the barn, and then it was easy enough to hop down onto the ground where Dorian was waiting for him. “What were you doing up there?” the man asked as soon as Aldaron was back on solid ground.

“Thinking,” the elf replied simply. “Why was Josephine looking for me? And why did she ask you?”

“She apparently thinks I am somehow preternaturally aware of your location at all times,” Dorian groused, “Or more likely that I was complicit in your disappearing act. She did seem to be under the impression you have good reason to be avoiding her. Something about that Orlesian ball? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Aldaron gasped suddenly, eyes going wide as he remembered something. “That was today?” he asked himself in muted horror. “What time is it?”

“Just past eleven bells, why?” Dorian asked.

Aldaron groaned in dismay. “I was supposed to meet her two hours ago,” he bemoaned. “She’s going to be so angry at me.”

“I’m not sure your lady ambassador is capable of being angry with anyone,” Dorian reassured, “Was the meeting terribly important? You haven’t snubbed the Empress herself, have you?”

“No, it…,” Aldaron hesitated and looked up at Dorian to gauge his reaction. He was always embarrassed to admit how little he knew about politics and behaving like a proper noble. “She’s teaching me how to dance,” he mumbled.

Dorian looked surprised, “You don’t—No, of course you don’t know. I can’t imagine they have many balls out in the forest,” he said, mostly to himself.

“I can dance,” Aldaron said almost defensively. “Just… not like this. Our dances don’t have any steps to remember. Orlesian dancing is hard,” he complained, and then sighed. “I should go apologize for missing our meeting this morning. Thank you for finding me, I would have forgotten entirely.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dorian offered. “If she is angry I want to see this marvel with my own eyes.”

 

* * *

  
The first thing Josephine did when the Inquisitor walked into her office looking and feeling like a scolded child was to turn her attention at the man trailing behind him and accuse, “You did know where he was.”

Dorian huffed, “I resent the accusation, but please think whatever you like, Lady Montilyet. And in my defense, I did tell you to try looking in a tree.”

“Was he in a tree?” the woman asked.

“He was on the roof of the stables,” Dorian admitted. “Which is an equally ridiculous place to be,” he added with a pointed look at Aldaron, “So I wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Having people talk about him like he wasn’t there wasn’t something that usually happened to the Inquisitor, but at the moment Aldaron was grateful for Dorian taking some of the attention away from him. Still, he had to speak up eventually. “I’m sorry for missing our appointment, Josephine,” he interrupted, “I… forgot.”

The ambassador finally turned her attention to the Inquisitor. She looked disapproving for a moment, and then sighed. “I suppose there is nothing to be done now,” she relented. “There are unfortunately other matters to attend to this afternoon, or I would offer to reschedule. Please do remember that I have cleared my mornings for you every day until we leave for the Winter Palace.”

“Yes, I remember. I was distracted this morning and it slipped my mind,” Aldaron said. He felt very much like a child now, reminded of every time he had gotten in trouble and been scolded by his parents or the Keeper. He probably deserved it this time. “I will not forget tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied. “But, since you are here perhaps we can discus the matter of uniforms?” she suggested, and then continued without giving him the opportunity to reply. “I have taken the liberty of hiring a tailor in Val Royeaux. The woman is very highly regarded and we are lucky to have acquired her services on such short notice. She and her assistants are on their way to Skyhold as we speak, and I expect they will arrive in the next few days to begin fittings.”

“What’s wrong with the tailor here?” Aldaron asked, perhaps naively. His clothes were perfectly fine, he thought, much higher quality than anything he’d owned before becoming Inquisitor.

“While the ball is primarily a front for peace talks between Empress Celine and Grand Duke Gaspard, it will also most certainly be the social event of the season. The Inquisition is a rising power in Thedas, and we must look the part if we are to gain the Court’s respect. Believe me, Inquisitor, there are those who will be looking for any perceived flaw in order to discredit you,” Josephine explained.

Any perceived flaw. Like his being an elf. A Dalish elf. He supposed to counter that he had to show up looking as far from the unwashed savage as possible. “Alright,” he relented before Josephine had a chance to elaborate further. “

“Very good, Inquisitor,” the woman smiled as though she hadn’t just badgered him into agreeing with her. “I will let you know as soon as they arrive.”

 

* * *

  
It was a week into the Inquisitor’s dance lessons and the Dalish elf was showing absolutely no improvement. Josephine was being incredibly patient with him, did not even complain when he stepped on her toes. Vivienne had taken to attending the lessons as well, offering advice from the sidelines and occasionally adjusting his posture. 

“My dear, you must stop staring at your toes, it is unbecoming,” Vivienne commented, “You must face your partner with poise and confidence.”

“Also from here it looks like you’re staring at her chest,” Dorian offered unhelpfully. The man showed up now and then, ostensibly to provide advice from a male perspective, but mostly spent his time staring at the elf’s backside and teasing whenever he messed up.

Aldaron’s face turned bright red and his gaze shot upward and fixed on a point above Josephine’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said quickly, and then, concentration broken, immediately stepped on Josephine’s foot. “Sorry,” he said again, released her hands and hurriedly took two steps away.

“It’s quite alright,” Josephine tried to assure him, but she did wince slightly, so Aldaron still felt bad. “We must work on your memorization,” she said thoughtfully.

“Do I really have to dance?” Aldaron asked, not for the first time. He knew he was terrible at this, and he doubted he would be able to master it in time. Inevitably he would embarrass himself and horribly insult – and potentially injure – some poor Orlesian woman.

“It is a ball,” Josephine reminded him, also not for the first time, “And you are the Inquisitor. I would be surprised if you did not receive any invitations to dance, and it would be considered very rude to decline them all.” Of course it would. So now he had to politic, wear stuffy clothes, _and_ dance. Fantastic. He was dreading this thing even more now.

“I’m certain this is not as complicated as you are leading yourself to believe,” Vivienne commented. “Perhaps if there were fewer distractions it would help your concentration.” She gave a pointed look at Dorian.

“The Winter Palace will have infinitely more distractions than my illustrious presence,” the man brushed off her concern. “Although I am flattered you think my being here is greater distraction than the entire Orlesian court.”

“Hardly, my dear,” Vivienne replied. “But we must first ensure that he is confident in the steps before we expect him to carry on a conversation as well.”

“I have to talk while doing this?” Aldaron asked in surprise and concern. This was the first he’d heard about that, and now the endeavor seemed even more hopeless.

“Well of course,” Vivienne replied, turning back to the Inquisitor. “You must engage with your partner. It would be remarkably rude to spend so long in their presence and remain entirely silent.”

Aldaron groaned in dismay. “Anything else you’ve forgotten to inform me about?” he muttered. He was becoming frustrated, and not only by his lack of progress. He was tired of being spoken to like a child when he messed up or asked questions. Of course he didn’t know the proper etiquette for attending a ball at the Orlesian court. Why would he? Until a few months ago he’d barely even set foot in a human settlement.

He was certain that his two instructors were equally frustrated. They were just too polite to say anything. Even now they shared a look as though asking what else he would need to be told. It all seemed so obvious to them, a lifetime in the presence of human nobles. But Aldaron grew up in the woods and the plains, not in gilded palaces and high towers. “That’s enough for today,” the Inquisitor said, more harshly than he intended. “I have other training to do. I imagine Heir is expecting me by now,” he said, even though he wasn’t set to meet with his trainer for another two hours.

Josephine sighed in resignation, but was probably relieved to give her feet a rest for the rest of the day. “Very well,” she replied. “We will pick up again tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Aldaron replied, and made a b-line for the door, ignoring even Dorian as he made his escape. He’d had enough of humans for the day and it was barely noon. For a while he needed to go do something he was good at, something he enjoyed. Heir would probably be impressed if he showed up early, too. At least as impressed as she ever was, which was not much.  

The Inquisitor was not stupid. He understood why the dancing was important. It would be hard enough for an elf to get into the good graces of the Orlesian court even with his position. He could not risk making this any harder by appearing the unwashed savage they believed all elves to be. So as pointless and frustrating as he believed dancing to be, Aldaron knew he had to learn.

That did not make it any easier, though.

They were scheduled to depart for Orlais and the Winter Palace in a week’s time. He had to master this by then. There would be little time for practice on the road. So Aldaron had taken to spending just about all of his spare time practicing, usually alone in his room, counting the beats under his breath and trying to remember the steps. And that was where he could be found later that evening: standing in the center of the floor, arms out around some imaginary dance partner, eyes fixed firmly on his bare feet, and lips moving as he silently counted the beats of the dance. He was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t hear the door open, or the footsteps coming up the stairs, didn’t notice another presence at all until Dorian’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“You missed dinner,” the mage said to announced his presence as he reached the top of the stairs.

The Inquisitor jumped, spun to face Dorian and dropped his arms to his sides, dark eyes wide. A child caught doing something not allowed. “Is it that late already?” he asked, trying with little success to brush off his embarrassment. He may have schooled his expression into something mostly blank, but his ears still burned red.

“Are you still having trouble?” Dorian asked, though the answer was obvious.

“Did you come to make fun of me again?” Aldaron returned, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“No, I really did only come to say you missed dinner. Maker knows you’re thin enough already without skipping meals,” Dorian said. “But I can if you want.”

“No, please.” Aldaron turned his gaze away from Dorian and stared out toward the mountains. Even after their heart-to-heart about Aldaron’s night terrors the elf still had trouble admitting to anything he perceived as a weakness. He knew Dorian would not judge him, knew that Dorian understood that he was learning all of this for the first time. But when he was surrounded all day by people to whom politics and polite conversation came naturally Aldaron couldn’t help feeling a little useless.

All of the doors had been thrown open a short while ago in a fit of claustrophobia – Aldaron had been cooped up in the keep for too long, occupied primarily with dance lessons and books on Orlesian culture - and a chill breeze drifted through the room. With a wave of his hand Dorian set the fireplace alight as he stepped further into the room, but made no comment about the cold. “I am surprised that you’re still struggling,” he said carefully. “That someone so surefooted everywhere else is so… unsure in this.”

Aldaron was not in the mood for teasing. He knew Dorian was trying to help somehow, but it did not make him feel better. “There is not music everywhere else. Or choreography. Or Orlesian noblewomen.”

Dorian could not suppress a short laugh. “What a world that would be,” he said. But Aldaron just pouted a little and Dorian wisely shut up. “Well, we can’t do anything about the noblewomen, but is it the music or the choreography that is giving you trouble?”

“Both?” the elf mumbled, shifting from foot to foot and still staring outside. “When I concentrate on the steps I can’t follow the music. When I focus on the music I forget all the steps.” And then he stepped on Josephine’s toes and got so flustered apologizing that they usually had to stop. She said it didn’t hurt, but he did not believe her.

“It sounds to me,” Dorian said thoughtfully, crossing the floor to stand in front of his pouting lover. “Like you’re thinking too much.”

“I already told you, I forget everything if I don’t think about it,” Aldaron snapped.

“I apologize,” Dorian said, and stared at him thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he held out his hand and ducked a short bow before asking, “Would you dance with me?”

“What?” Aldaron asked in surprise, but couldn’t stop his face from heating up.

“Humor me, amatus,” Dorian smiled and kept his hand outstretched. “I’ve watched you stumble all over poor Josephine for days, obviously it’s not helping. Let me try? You may step on my feet all you like, I forgive you in advance.”

Aldaron looked skeptical, but eventually he took the offered hand and let Dorian pull him close. The mage set his partner’s hand on his shoulder, his own around the elf’s slim waist. This wasn’t what Aldaron was used to; Dorian was making him the girl? “Follow my lead,” the man instructed, “And try not to think too much.” He did not give Aldaron the chance to change his mind or protest before pulling him into the steps. Dorian had years of lessons behind him thanks to his parents and the movements came easy even without music. Aldaron stumbled after him, startled and confused, stepped on his foot once, stammered out fervent apologies, and then seemed to find his rhythm. But he was still staring at his feet and counting in his head. “You are thinking so loudly I can hear you,” Dorian protested.

“Sorry,” the elf mumbled.

“And stop staring at my feet. I know these are very nice boots, but my face is infinitely more attractive.”

Aldaron let out a soft huff of laughter but did raise his head and meet Dorian’s gaze. The mage grinned at him, and Aldaron could not help but smile back. “Much better,” Dorian praised, and Aldaron was not sure if he was talking about the dancing or not. So he stayed silent and let Dorian spin him around the floor, and he did not step on the man’s toes once.

This was the most intimate they had been since their fight. Aldaron had been careful to keep some distance from Dorian, allowing the man to calm down and take as much time as he needed to get over the pain that Aldaron had caused him. So they had barely touched, though they still spent as much time together as the Inquisitor’s busy schedule allowed. But Dorian didn’t spend his nights in Aldaron’s bed anymore, and the elf had not asked. He didn’t think he had the right anymore, though it was hard to be alone when he was still struggling to sleep. He still hadn’t mastered any of the techniques that Solas was attempting to teach him to recognize when he was dreaming and when he was not.

After a few turns around the room Dorian stopped, and let his hands drop away from Aldaron as he took a step back. Aldaron didn’t actually want to stop, but he said nothing. To his surprise, he’d actually enjoyed himself. He’d never thought it possible.

“See, not as hard as you think,” Dorian said with a smile.

“But you were leading,” Aldaron pointed out. All he had to do was let Dorian pull him around.

“True,” the man admitted. “But you still only stepped on my toes the one time, and that was more my fault than yours. Would you like to try the other way around?”

Actually yes, Aldaron found that he would like that if it meant spending more time close to Dorian. But before he could say as much his stomach answered for him, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since a very small lunch at midday and had since spent the rest of the day on his feet. He flushed in embarrassment and clapped a hand over his stomach as though that would silence it.

Dorian laughed, “Well, maybe after you’ve had something to eat. That is why I came here in the first place, and I apologize for getting side-tracked.”

“No, it’s fine,” Aldaron mumbled. “I… enjoyed it.”

Dorian smiled wider to hear that. “Then there’s hope for you yet,” he commented. “We’ll get you looking and acting like Orlesian nobility in no time. Speaking of, this tailor woman Josephine hired has been shockingly tight-lipped about her work. And my fitting isn’t for another two days, I’m embarrassingly eager to see what your people have decided to dress us in.”

“You’ll hate them,” Aldaron commented. He’d been privy to a few early glimpses of the uniforms as they took shape.

“Oh?” Dorian asked with some concern. “Why is that?”

“Two sleeves,” Aldaron replied, failing to hide a smile as he gestured to Dorian’s outfit.

The man let out a bark of laughter. “Yes, well they were designed by Orlesians, we can only expect so much. Care to share anything else about these mysterious garments?”

“My fitting is tomorrow following dance lessons,” Aldaron said and sighed. While dancing again with Dorian had sounded fantastic, he was not looking forward to another session with Josephine and Vivienne. “You can come if you like.”

Dorian looked surprised by the offer, “How could I possibly refuse such a scandalous offer?” he asked.

“Is it scandalous?” Aldaron asked. Clueless as always in matters of propriety.

“To watch you change clothes? I should think so,” Dorian replied.

“You’ve watched me change lots of times,” Aldaron pointed out. “And the tailor would be there, also. Don’t they have some sort of routine for this?”

Dorian sighed, “Yes, they do. But you’re ruining all my fun.”

Aldaron rolled his eyes and pulled on his boots before heading down the stairs after his stomach complained again. “You’ve got some strange fantasy all planned out in your head, don’t you? What’s so exciting about watching me change clothes?”

“Mostly the part where you get naked,” Dorian said, following after him.

Aldaron blushed and was very glad that he wasn’t facing Dorian at the moment. Sometimes Dorian was incredibly forward, and he still wasn’t used to it. This particular comment was also a surprise considering what rocky ground they had been on for the past few days. Well, it was nice to know that Dorian was still attracted to him. “You know…” he replied, still blushing and feeling shy like he hadn’t since their first time together, “You have a standing invitation to my rooms. You could see that whenever you like.”

“Whenever I like?” Dorian asked. Even though he wasn’t looking Aldaron could practically hear the smirk in Dorian’s voice. It only made him blush more.

“Well, once a day at least,” he replied, eyes fixed firmly in front of him.

“You know, when you blush your ears turn the most adorable shade of red,” Dorian chuckled. Aldaron was too flustered to reply. He was definitely glad that Dorian was at least considering rekindling the more intimate side of their relationship, but he wasn’t entirely certain whether the man was being serious or if he was just teasing again. “You should be careful what you wish for, amatus,” Dorian’s voice purred from a few steps behind, “I may take you up on that offer.”

Aldaron tripped down one step and had to grasp the railings firmly to keep from falling and hurting himself. His heart thundered and all doubts fled from his mind.

“Are you alright?” Dorian was suddenly right beside him, as Aldaron had been forced to stop while he regained his balance. “You should be more careful, amatus, anyone might think you were distracted,” he smiled that damn sly smile and then slipped past Aldaron to continue down the stairs and out into the main hall. Aldaron had to stay where he was for a moment to regain his composure before he could even consider stepping out in public.

Dorian was definitely more distracting than the entire Orlesian court. Without a doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on, plot moves forward!
> 
>  _This fic will be going on hiatus for the month of May._ I will be out of town for two weekends and have irl projects that need to be worked on, so I'm going to be taking a little break in order to focus on those. I may or may not be posting short drabbles/deleted scenes/random smut on my [tumblr](http://erandir.tumblr.com) in the meantime, if anyone is interested. Regardless, DDSH will return in June in Halamshiral!


	18. Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from hiatus! Thank you all for being patient with me and sticking it out. Here is an extra long, extra fluff filled chapter to make up for it. Please enjoy.  
> While I was away we broke 300 kudos! That's amazing. By far the most I've gotten on any fic. You guys are awesome.

Aldaron tugged uncomfortably on the collar of his jacket, taking one last look at himself in the mirror to ensure everything was in place. He did not like this uniform. It was too fitted and stiff, he felt like he couldn’t move or breathe properly, the fabric was heavy and itched, the gloves were too bulky on his slim hands, and the boots were even more uncomfortable than his usual ones – brand new and not yet broken in. How anyone expected him to catch assassins wearing this he had no idea. He tried one last time in vain to smooth his hair into place, and then gave up.

That was enough stalling; if he lingered any longer they would be more than fashionably late to the ball.

The Inquisitor’s entire inner circle would be in attendance of Empress Celene’s masquerade, but the Inquisitor himself was the one on whom all eyes would be trained. Aldaron had been dreading the event since the first time it was mentioned, and now it was only moments away. He had been a bit of a nervous wreck the entire three days they spent on the road to Halamshiral. They had traveled at the slightly more sedate pace of luxuriating nobles, or so he was lead to believe, staying at inns along the way instead of camping.

Reluctantly, Aldaron finally left his room at the inn and headed downstairs to join the rest of his companions. They were all there already, in the common room of the inn, dressed and ready, although Leliana was still attempting to get Sera to wear her uniform properly.

“Good, you’re here,” Josephine caught his attention immediately, “We really must be going.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize everyone was waiting on me,” Aldaron said. If he’d known he wouldn’t have procrastinated as much.

“It’s quite alright,” Josephine replied, smiling as though she hadn’t just contradicted herself. “We have the time, but we don’t want to risk being late.”

“We aren’t at risk of being even fashionably late yet,” Leliana cut in. “Perhaps we should wait a bit longer?”

Josephine shot her a displeased look. “We would not want to risk insulting the court by arriving too late in the evening,” she argued.

“Let’s just go now, if everyone is ready,” Aldaron interrupted. He wanted to get this over with. That was how he felt about all matters of politics. He wasn’t made for politics. His goals for the evening were simple: find an assassin, kill the assassin, avoid embarrassing himself, and avoid offending anyone (the last one would be the hardest). Then go back to Skyhold and get back to hunting demons. To think he’d reached a point in his life where he looked forward to fighting demons. But they were easier to deal with than nobles.

Slowly the others filed out of the inn, showing varying degrees of excitement and dread. Aldaron trailed behind, still procrastinating for as long as possible. He was fidgeting he was so nervous, tugging again at the uncomfortable collar of his jacket.

“Look at you,” Dorian intercepted him before he could step outside. His eyes raked over Aldaron’s form noticeably enough to make the elf blush faintly. “This is a good color for you,” he commented, reaching out to brush imaginary dust from Aldaron’s shoulders. “Much more interesting than those drab things you usually wear. But I see you still couldn’t be bothered to comb your hair.”

“I did comb my hair,” Aldaron said almost defensively.

Dorian winced slightly, “You poor man,” he sighed. “Well, you look dashing regardless.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Aldaron complained while no one else was around to hear him.

“We all must make sacrifices for the sake of fashion,” Dorian said solemnly. “Just be happy you don’t also have to wear one of those ridiculous masks.”

“That would be worse,” Aldaron was forced to agree. They looked uncomfortable. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to go around with a heavy piece of ceramic or metal strapped to their face. And how could they see properly out of those things?

“Dorian!” Josephine’s voice cut through, ruining the moment. Aldaron looked over the man’s shoulder to see her standing impatiently in the doorway. “Would you please stop distracting the Inquisitor? We are going to be late.”

“Yes, yes, we’re coming,” Dorian said with a roll of his eyes, finally turning away from Aldaron to stride out of the inn as though he had not a concern in the world. Well, he certainly had less concerns than the Inquisitor. Dorian at least was used to fancy clothes and fancy parties and politics and dancing. Aldaron was still nervous, his stomach full of butterflies as he let Josephine usher him out the door and into an awaiting carriage.

For the admittedly short ride up to the palace he had only Josephine for company. Aldaron was happy to have her, at least, though he would have been less nervous with even more of his companions at his back. This was all about politics and appearances, however. He was supposed to be the leader of a rising political power; he had to stand on his own. As the Inquisition’s ambassador, Josephine’s presence at his side could be explained away to an extent, though she could do little more than offer advice from the sidelines.

“I must warn you before we arrive,” the ambassador said as the carriage began moving. “How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death,” she warned as though he had not heard the same lecture a dozen times already. “It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness.”

“I’ll keep my guard up, don’t worry,” Aldaron assured, and managed to sound more confident than he felt. Of course, by now his façade of confidence was so well rehearsed it was nearly flawless.

“The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death,” Josephine continued, “You must never reveal your cards. When you meet the empress, the eyes of the entire court will be on you. You were safer in the Fade with the fear demon.”

The mere mention of it was like an icy claw gripping his heart. Aldaron sucked in a harsh breath and fisted his hands in the fabric of his pants as he forced himself to remain calm, to maintain a straight face. Don’t think about it, he reminded himself. This is nothing like that. Josephine doesn’t know what she’s talking about, she wasn’t there.

“That’s not the most encouraging comparison, Josephine,” Aldaron replied when he was certain his voice would remain steady.

“Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration,” Josephine relented, “But The Game is no less ruthless than open war. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

If only she sounded more certain of it herself. It wasn’t comforting. Aldaron spent the rest of the short trip attempting to keep himself calm, repeating to himself over and over that everything would be fine, all he had to do was smile and be polite and not trust anyone. It wouldn’t be that hard.

When finally they pulled to a stop the Inquisitor stepped out of the carriage and took his first look at the Winter Palace. Pride of the Orlesian Empire built atop the ruins of his people like some sort of disgusting trophy. Aldaron hated it immensely. But as he stepped through the gates he put on that well-rehearsed smile and spouted all the pretty words these _shemlen_ wanted to hear. He might hate every minute of it, but he would show them that the Dalish were not savage barbarians and that the Inquisition was a power to be respected.

 

* * *

  
The evening was long, and frustrating, and bloodier than he’d expected, but absolutely as miserable as he had expected.

Their mission had been a success, however. At least in the sense that the Inquisition had done what they set out to do. The Empress was alive, the assassin exposed, and an elf sat in the shadows behind the throne. Maybe some of his advisors weren’t terribly pleased with that last part, but Aldaron liked the idea that one of his people – even a city elf – had a say in how things were done. Maybe it would help.

Political success the evening had been, but too many people had died to see it done. Too many for it to feel like a victory.

There was also that mage woman, the Empress’ ‘occult advisor’, thrust into the Inquisition without his consent. The Inquisitor did not trust her. He did not trust anyone here who was not already a part of the Inquisition. Aldaron now knew first hand just how duplicitous Orlesians could be. Every one of them only out for themselves in a sordid scrabble for wealth and power. Their selfishness was revolting. Every time he was forced to meet with an Orlesian noble or dignitary Aldaron hated them more, with very few exceptions. He would have happily washed his hands of this entire country, but the Inquisition was at war, and it needed the support of such a powerful nation. At the very least, it could not afford to make Orlais an enemy.

Aldaron sighed and leaned heavily on the railing of the balcony he had escaped to, seeking peace and quiet and air untainted by perfume. So much had happened this night that he did not fully grasp. He was still unused to his actions carrying so much weight. To think someone like him – a Dalish elf, a hunter – could influence politics that effected the entire world. It still boggled the mind.

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you,” Dorian’s familiar voice brought Aldaron out of his thoughts as the man walked out into the balcony, “Said she had twelve daughters! I told her you’d left already. You can thank me later. Or now,” he was grinning as he leaned against the railing beside Aldaron, but the smile faded somewhat when he saw the look on Aldaron’s face. “But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?”

“I’m just worn out,” Aldaron told him honestly. “Tonight has been… very long.” He’d spent the entire evening running around the palace, talking, dancing, fighting, climbing the architecture. What he wouldn’t give just to sit down for a moment and breathe.

“You won!” Dorian laughed, “You saved the day. Literally, the day is saved. You should be celebrating! Enjoy yourself while you can.”

Aldaron didn’t feel much like celebrating, and it didn’t feel much like a victory. He didn’t feel like he had changed much of anything. They had stopped the assassination attempt, yes, and had ensured that Orlais would remain stable for the time being. But two wings of the palace were drenched in blood, much of it innocent, most of it avoidable. Were human politics always so bloody? Aldaron didn’t like it.

“What you need is a distraction,” Dorian observed. “I have just the thing: let’s dance.” He smiled again as he stepped back from the railing and held a hand out toward Aldaron.

The elf couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips as he finally pushed himself upright. He had hated dancing with the Grand Duchess, it had been stiff and stressful; a constant worry about slipping up either in his steps or in his words. But he remembered practicing with Dorian in the privacy of his quarters back at Skyhold and how much he had enjoyed that. A chance to dance with him would certainly make the evening more bearable. “I was hoping you would ask,” he said, taking Dorian’s hand and letting the man pull him close.

“Thank goodness one of us has some initiative,” Dorian teased. As before he took the lead, allowing Aldaron to relax and simply follow along. And it was relaxing. Faint strains of music drifted out from the ballroom, just loud enough to give them something to dance to as Dorian lead them smoothly through the steps. So much more enjoyable with someone else doing all the work, and without what felt like half the world watching his every move.

Aldaron wondered absently what all those tittering nobles would think if they saw him now. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” he asked without humor, “The evil magister and the knife-eared savage?”

Dorian’s brow creased in concern. “Have they been calling you that?”

“Not to my face,” the elf murmured, and then amended, “Mostly not to my face. But the ears aren’t just for decoration.”

“Although they are lovely decoration,” Dorian was quick to reply, an attempt to brighten Aldaron’s mood that wasn’t entirely unsuccessful. “Ignore them, amatus. They are clearly jealous of your position, charm, and stunning good looks.”

“That’s your unbiased opinion, is it?” Aldaron asked, faint dusting of red on his cheeks and a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course,” Dorian assured. “I admit that some time ago I may have… had similar thoughts about your people. Then I met you. And I may have put my foot in my mouth several times during our acquaintance, and I may find you absolutely baffling at times, but you have changed my opinion drastically for the better. As have Solas and Sera, for that matter. The point is, anyone who has had half a conversation with you could not possibly be stupid enough to think you deserving of such insults,” he paused and pulled Aldaron flush against him before leaning down to press their lips together very briefly, “My opinion of your good looks may be biased, however. There’s no accounting for taste, and obviously these Orlesians have none.”

“How is it you always know exactly what to say?” Aldaron murmured, blushing faintly, but smiling as well.

“One of my many talents,” Dorian replied proudly.

“Are you still mad at me?” Aldaron blurted out, surprising even himself with his lack of tact. Perhaps he’d already used up all his tact for the evening.

“Mad at you?” Dorian asked, dumbfounded, “About what?”

“About before,” Aldaron mumbled, let his gaze fall down to his feet. Dorian had stopped moving, though they still swayed gently to the music. “When I yelled at you and left you behind.”

“Ah, that,” Dorian replied, his voice a sigh. “No, I’m not mad at you, amatus. Do you think I’d be here dancing with you if I was?”

That was a fair point, but Dorian had been enjoying the punch quite a bit while Aldaron was running around. They had never spoken of the incident since Aldaron’s first tearful apology. Dorian hadn’t been avoiding him, had still joked and flirted, but they hadn’t been spending the nights together, either. That had left Aldaron feeling confused and shy in his interactions with Dorian, he was reassured to finally hear in words that the man was not angry with him. “I’m glad,” the elf breathed a sigh of relief.

“Did you think I was all this time?” Dorian asked.

“I… wasn’t sure,” Aldaron admitted.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention,” Dorian replied. “I just needed a bit of time to calm down. And then you were a nervous wreck about this ball and I didn’t want to give you any more cause for stress. I apologize if that gave the wrong impression.”

“It’s… fine,” Aldaron said slowly. Dorian was probably right, he had been a wreck in the days leading up to this one, and it was hard to say whether Dorian’s presence would have been a comfort or just make it worse. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” he sighed again and rested his forehead against Dorian’s shoulder, allowing his eyes to fall closed for a moment.

“As am I,” Dorian replied. “It was terribly difficult, trying to be mad at you.”

Aldaron didn’t know how long they had been like this, hands entwined as Dorian moved them gently to the beat of the music filtering out onto the balcony. He’d lost track of the time, and frankly didn’t care anymore. After everything they’d done that night he thought he deserved a little fun.

“What deep thoughts are you thinking now?” Dorian asked softly.

Aldaron raised his head from the man’s shoulder to look up at him. “I’m wondering at what point tonight I’m allowed to get spectacularly drunk.”

Dorian laughed aloud. “I’d say we’ve reached that point, wouldn’t you?”

“Creators, I hope so,” Aldaron breathed, and somewhat reluctantly stepped away from Dorian. He really needed a drink. And some food. He was starving. “Do you think there are any of those tiny cakes left?”

“Let’s go find out,” Dorian said, and arm in arm the pair ventured back into the ballroom.

Three hours later they staggered out past the gates of the palace along with the last straggling members of the Inquisition. The Inquisitor had one arm around Dorian’s shoulders to keep himself upright (though the man wasn’t looking particularly stable himself) and had a half empty bottle of wine in his other hand. At the gates he paused and handed the bottle over to a servant along with a slightly slurred apology about all the blood they would probably have to clean up. The elven servant accepted the bottle with a slightly stunned expression and watched as the Inquisitor and his companion were ushered into the awaiting carriage.

Finally away from the prying eyes of various nobles, Aldaron immediately began removing the various pieces of his uniform that he hated the most. His gloves hit the floor of the carriage as it started moving, the top two buttons of his jacket came undone, he bent to remove his boots and stopped, not quite drunk enough to forget where they were.

“Not that I’m not enjoying the show,” Dorian commented from his seat, eyes watching Aldaron’s every move, and maybe not as drunk as he’d let on, “But you might want to save the final reveal for when we actually get to bed.”

Aldaron let his head fall back against the seatback with an unhappy groan and stretched his legs out in front of him as much as the carriage allowed. “I don’t like these clothes,” he whined. They were too stiff and too hot and his feet hurt. He wanted out.

“I prefer you out of them also,” Dorian replied, “But we can’t let half of Orlais see you naked. I’d be jealous.”

The elf let his head roll to the side to look at his lover. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” the mage smirked. He wrapped an arm around Aldaron’s shoulders and pulled the elf closer in order to press a kiss to the tip of his ear.

Aldaron squirmed in his grasp, “That tickles,” he laughed.

So Dorian did it again, and Aldaron squirmed more. “They can dress you up and parade you around all they like,” he murmured against the shell of his ear, and his voice sent a pleasant chill down Aldaron’s spine. A chill that was trailed by Dorian’s hand as it slid down from his shoulder to his waist and then even lower, “But this part of you is mine. And I don’t like sharing.”

Aldaron was already flushed from the drink or he would likely have blushed at the implication. As it was he only laughed breathlessly and shifted to sit a little closer to Dorian. He lifted his head to press a kiss to the man’s lips, tasting the last of the wine they had shared and wishing belatedly that he hadn’t given it away. (Although that servant certainly deserved a bottle of wine.)

“Inquisitor, I do believe you’re drunk,” Dorian purred when their lips parted.

“So are you,” the elf replied.

“Yes, that’s true,” Dorian laughed, and hauled a willing Aldaron onto his lap to kiss him again.

Aldaron had missed this. Being close. Not worrying about doing or saying the wrong thing. Since their fight he had been constantly concerned about doing something that would drive Dorian off for good. Now finally he felt like everything was going to be alright between them. Dorian wasn’t mad. Dorian still liked him, still cared about him, still wanted him. Aldaron hadn’t even realized how much the uncertainty had been weighing on him until it was lifted. Now he wanted nothing more than to be as close to Dorian as possible, to drown in him in order to make up for the weeks apart because of his stupidity.

Eventually Dorian pulled away from the kiss, leaving Aldaron panting and wanting more. He even leaned in for another kiss, but was halted by a finger on his lips, a hand gently holding him back. Confused, Aldaron frowned at Dorian questioningly. The man certainly didn’t look like he wanted to stop.

“This is another thing we should save for bed,” Dorian breathed. Again Aldaron wondered if he was really as drunk as he let on. But he wasn’t drunk enough not to realize that Dorian had a point. So with a whine and a sigh Aldaron rolled off of Dorian’s lap to sit beside him again. They could not get back to the inn fast enough.

The rest of the trip back to the inn passed in both an instant and an eternity until finally the carriage came to a stop in front of the inn and someone pulled the door open. Aldaron barely remembered to grab his gloves off the floor before letting Dorian drag him out by the hand. They stumbled through the front door and toward the stairs, up toward the guest rooms and through a door. Aldaron wasn’t even paying attention to where they were; he had eyes only for Dorian. But he recognized what it meant when the door closed behind them. He let his gloves fall to the floor again, and they were quickly followed by belt, sash, jacket. Then he sat down heavily on the bed, practically falling back onto it. He pushed, pulled, kicked his boots off and tossed them across the room. Good riddance. Stripped down to his pants – the only part of this uniform that he did not hate – Aldaron flopped backwards onto the bed and stretched happily, flexing his feet and toes. Freedom at last.

Beside him the mattress dipped, as Dorian sat down beside him. He’d done away with his own outerwear as well, though it sat folded nicely atop a chair and not strewn about the floor like Aldaron’s. “You really hated those boots,” he observed with amusement, bending to take off his own.

“They hurt my feet,” Aldaron said defensively. He wiggled his toes again, still relishing the ability to move freely again.

“Ah, our poor Inquisitor,” Dorian sighed dramatically. He slid off his boots and set them by the foot of the bed. “Forced into proper footwear. How you suffer for the sake of us all.”

Aldaron pouted and stuck his tongue out in protest, a move that backfired in the best way possible as Dorian leaned down to kiss him. Immediately Aldaron was kissing him back, arms looping around Dorian’s shoulders to pull the man closer.

 

* * *

 

Aldaron woke with not the worst hangover he’d ever had – although it was only his second ever hangover – but an incredible headache none-the-less. He was sprawled half across Dorian in a bed that was barely large enough for two people to sleep comfortably. Carefully, he risked cracking his eyes open, and thankfully the room was still only dimly lit, fire died down to embers and curtains drawn, though there were cracks of sunlight peeking in around the edges.

This wasn’t his room, Aldaron realized, still blinking sleepily. It must be Dorian’s, then. He wondered how long he could hide here before someone came looking for him. Hours, maybe. If he was lucky. They would know he was here as soon as they figured out he wasn’t in his own room, but how long before anyone had the courage to come in? Aldaron had just closed his eyes and was trying to go back to sleep when his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d had nothing to eat the night before except a variety of pastries and entirely too much wine.

So much for hiding in bed all day. He definitely wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep now.

Sighing, Aldaron opened his eyes again. For a moment he stared blankly at the wall, then carefully he moved off of Dorian and slowly sat up. Getting food meant leaving the room, which meant getting dressed. And there Aldaron found a dilemma. He glared at the bits of clothing littered across the floor where he had discarded them the night before, then nudged the body next to him. “Dorian.” The man grumbled in his sleep and rolled over. Aldaron nudged him again, “Dorian.”

“What?” Dorian sounded mildly annoyed, still half asleep.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Aldaron said.

“They’re on the floor. You said you hated them.” Dorian’s voice was muffled against the pillows. “I didn’t realize you were that drunk.”

“No,” Aldaron groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He knew where they were and why he wasn’t wearing them, he hadn’t been that drunk. “I don’t have anything to wear,” he tried again. He couldn’t really form the sentences needed to explain his dilemma. He was hungry and his head hurt and he didn’t want to walk down the hall to his own room wearing the same thing he’d worn the night before.

“Finally realized how dreadful your usual outfit is?” Dorian asked. He rolled onto his back again and blinked sleepily up at Aldaron. “All that Orlesian finery finally inspired an interest in fashion?”

“No,” Aldaron whined. Being upright was too much work, so he flopped back onto the bed beside Dorian. “I’m hungry,” he pouted, “But I can’t leave. I don’t have any clothes.”

“Ah,” Dorian nodded slowly and raised a hand subconsciously to straighten his moustache. “The Inquisitor can’t be seen doing the walk of shame.” Aldaron didn’t know what that was, but it definitely sounded like something he wanted to avoid. “I don’t see why I had to be woken up for this. What do you expect me to do about it?”

Dorian had clothes. He could leave without drawing attention to himself.

“No,” the man said before Aldaron could even open his mouth. “Don’t make that face. I’m not getting out of bed to get you clothes. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Aldaron did not. But the sun was up, so it was later than the Inquisitor usually slept (even when he managed to sleep). He doubted Dorian knew what time it was, either. “Please, Dorian,” he whined.

“No. Stop with the calf eyes. I’m going back to sleep,” the man protested, pointedly rolling away from Aldaron. As if on cue, Aldaron’s stomach made itself known again, complaining embarrassingly loud. Aldaron was mildly mortified, but it prompted Dorian to look over his shoulder again, expression incredulous. “Was that your stomach or is there a bear loose in the inn?”

“I’m hungry,” Aldaron mumbled, wrapping his arms around his waist as though that would prevent any further noises. “The only thing I ate last night were those tiny cakes.”

Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you eat anything else?”

“I was afraid I might throw up on someone important,” Aldaron admitted. With how nervous he’d been leading up and during the ball it had seemed like a very real possibility.

“That would have put a damper on our relationship with Orlais, yes,” Dorian was forced to admit. He sighed melodramatically and pushed a hand through his messy hair. “Very well, I’ll go find you something to wear,” he relented, pushed himself upright and stretched. “The things I do for you, amatus. You had better be grateful.”

“I am,” Aldaron said, sitting up as well. He looped his arms loosely around Dorian’s waist and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then his cheek. “Thank you, ‘ma’nehn.”

Dorian turned his head to return the kiss quickly, “I hate you entirely,” he said before breaking out of Aldaron’s arms as he climbed out of bed.

Of course Dorian couldn’t just dress and waltz down the hall to Aldaron’s room and back. No, he had to make himself perfectly presentable first in case anyone saw him. It took an hour for the man to shave, dress, and style himself sufficiently to be seen in public. In the mean time Aldaron pulled on his smallclothes and undershirt from the night before and watched his lover’s routine from underneath a pile of blankets on the bed. Dorian was just putting the finishing touches on his hair when there was a loud and rather pointed knock on the door. He paused, looked over at the door, and then at Aldaron. “I think you’ve been found, amatus,” he commented, and curled the ends of his moustache around his fingers before going over to the door.

Aldaron pulled the blankets up over his head to hide, but he heard Dorian open the door. “Lady Montilyet, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this fine morning?”

“Is the Inquisitor here?” Josephine asked. Straight to the point and no frivolous greetings this morning, she must have been looking for a while.

“You’re not here to see me?” Dorian asked with false affront in his voice. “I’m terribly offended, Lady Ambassador. I will accept apology only in the form of full access to the Skyhold wine cellar.” There was a brief pause in conversation. Josephine did not reply, but Aldaron could imagine her unimpressed expression. “No? Very well,” Dorian sighed. “Yes, he’s here. Our fearless leader refuses to leave the room until someone brings him a change of clothes.”

Aldaron was suddenly very glad that he was hiding under a pile of blankets. Just announce it to the entire world, Dorian, thank you.

“He… what?” Josephine asked, obviously surprised.

“Well, the Inquisitor can’t very well be seen going back to his room this morning wearing the same thing he did last night,” Dorian explained. “What would people say? It’s been weeks since anyone thought I was stealing his soul, and we’d rather like to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”

There was another moment of silence before Josephine spoke again. “Shall I send someone to fetch his clothing for him?” she asked.

“I was just about to do so myself,” Dorian waved her off, “But perhaps you could send up some breakfast for us? It is still early enough for breakfast, yes?”

“Very well.” Aldaron could hear the exasperation in Josephine’s voice even as she agreed to Dorian’s request. “Please let the Inquisitor know that we need to be on the road as soon as possible if we are to keep on schedule.”

“Yes, yes, we’re well aware,” Dorian said flippantly. “Can’t go traveling on an empty stomach, though, can we? We’ll be down as soon as we’re able. Thank you, Josephine.”

Aldaron did not come out of hiding until he heard the door close, and then he peeked out over the edge of the blankets. Dorian was still standing by the door, but he was looking back at Aldaron now. “Thank you,” the elf said.

“Fending off your keepers was not part of this deal,” Dorian told him, but didn’t seem too annoyed. Aldaron thought he actually enjoyed riling up Josephine. Or anyone, for that matter. “Suppose I’d better get you something to wear before someone comes to drag you out of bed. Shouldn’t be gone long, it’s not as though you have many clothes to choose from.”

And he was not away very long, just enough time for Aldaron to finally force himself out of bed and gather the various pieces of clothing still on the floor and fold them into a neat stack on the foot of the bed. When Dorian returned it was with a bundle of clothes under one arm and a pair of boots in hand. “Josephine is hovering rather impatiently at the bottom of the stairs,” he informed, holding the clothes out to Aldaron, who took them and quickly began dressing.  “I imagine she’ll be dragging you off to Maker knows what as soon as you set foot outside. Never a moment’s rest for you, is there?”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Aldaron sighed. There had been a bit of time to relax the night before, but he wasn’t at all surprised his advisors already wanted him back to work even as they traveled back to Skyhold. No doubt Josephine wanted to inform him of every insignificant thing that had happened at the ball and the impact of every word he’d said. Leliana probably also had plenty of new blackmail material to share with him, as though he cared or understood the relevance of who said what to whom. He was not looking forward to it.

Their food arrived by the time Aldaron finished dressing and they ate quickly. Then there was no further reason to stay holed up here. Despite his reluctance to face the day, Aldaron did want to leave the city and be back in Skyhold. He hadn’t liked this city the moment he stepped for in it, and he still hated it.

Good riddance. If he never saw the Winter Palace again it would be too soon.  


	19. Compromise

The return to Skyhold did not offer any respite. If anything, the Inquisitor was busier than he had been since planning the siege of Adamant. Barely given time to recover from traveling before it was another full day locked up in the war room briefed on new alliances, pouring over new treaties, signing letters, and planning their next move. His advisors had not been idle while Aldaron ran about the Winter Palace chasing assassins. Nobles of all sorts had been summarily impressed by the Inquisitor’s actions that night, and support was pouring in.

It had the beneficial effect of exhausting Aldaron to the point where he collapsed into bed at the end of the day and slept without dreaming. Not exactly ideal, but Dorian wouldn’t complain. He couldn’t say he hadn’t attempted a similar strategy in the past, but Aldaron had always found politics more exhausting than any form of physical activity.

Work all day and, emotionally exhausted, fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. No time for romance when you’re busy saving the world. It would be a lie to say that Dorian wasn’t a little bit bitter, though he chided himself for it. The Inquisitor’s work was important, and there was a heavy feeling of anticipation over Skyhold as everyone waited to learn their next move.

Dorian fully expected this pattern to continue for some time. So when Aldaron showed up at Dorian’s nook in the library in the middle of the day only a few days after their return the man was surprised. “Something I can do for you, Inquisitor?” he asked, assuming that the only way Aldaron could have had time to see him was if he had official business.

“I need to talk to you,” the elf replied. He certainly looked every bit the Inquisitor right now; voice steady and confident, back straight and proud. Dorian wasn’t used to seeing this persona around Skyhold unless Aldaron was playing nice with visiting dignitaries. It was unusual that he would wear it now.

“I am, as you say down South, all ears,” Dorian replied. He marked his place in the book he was reading and flipped it closed before turning his full attention to the Inquisitor.

Aldaron’s eyes darted around the library, taking stock of the people lingering there today, before meeting Dorian’s gaze again. “In private,” he amended.

That was when Dorian realized that the elf’s hands were shaking. Fisted and pressed against his side in an attempt to hide it, an attempt to appear casual. Something had spooked him. That mask wasn’t up for show.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked.

“Please,” Aldaron interrupted. His voice was level but his hands still shook and his eyes were beseeching.

“Of course,” Dorian rose from his seat and set down his book. “Lead the way.”

Aldaron nodded and turned around, moving with quick, efficient steps down the stairs and out of the library. As they passed through the rotunda he cast a glance toward Solas, wondering if the elven mage knew the cause of Aldaron’s unusual behavior, but he was engrossed in his newest mural and didn’t pay them any attention. As they left the tower and crossed through the main hall Aldaron walked like a man on a mission. Dorian followed behind feeling rather uncomfortable about this whole situation. A few of the nobles milling about attempted to greet the Inquisitor, and he returned the greetings politely, but curtly. Dismissive.

The Inquisitor was holding himself so tensely that Dorian half expected him to crumble as soon as they were past the outer door to his quarters. But even when they were shut away from prying eyes Aldaron continued onward, silent and determined as he climbed the flights of stairs up to his rooms. Dorian was becoming more worried by the minute. It was a relief when they finally passed through the last door and up the final flight of stairs to the Inquisitor’s bedroom.

“Now will you tell me what’s got you so worked up?” Dorian asked rather impatiently.

“It’s Morrigan,” Aldaron said, and began pacing. He hadn’t fully let down his guard yet, even though they were in private. That was concerning. Dorian at first thought the witch had said something to upset him, perhaps something disparaging about elves, but the notion was quickly dismissed when Aldaron kept talking. “She has this… artifact in one of the storage rooms. She didn’t tell anyone about it except me. An eluvian. It’s… it’s like a magical door?” That was more a question than a statement. Aldaron had always struggled to understand magic; had trouble wrapping his mind around things he couldn’t see or touch.

“I’ve read about eluvians,” Dorian replied, assuring that his lover didn’t need to explain it. “The ancient Tevinters used them, but they were supposedly all destroyed. You’re saying she has one here? A working one?” Dorian asked.

“Yes,” Aldaron said without pausing in his pacing.

“That’s amazing,” Dorian breathed.

“No it’s not!” Aldaron exclaimed. He stopped moving, hands still fisted at his sides and shoulders tense. “You don’t know where it leads! I don’t want it here!”

The outburst pulled Dorian’s thoughts back to the present. Fascinating as this all was, now was not the time to indulge his curiosity, not while Aldaron was in a panic. “Where does it lead? Why does it upset you so much?” he asked.

“It goes to the Fade,” Aldaron blurted out, and in that instant Dorian understood perfectly. A gateway to the Fade sitting like old furniture just downstairs from his bedroom. The cause of all his nightmares in the heart of what should have been his safest place in the world. “Or… Not the fade, but somewhere close? I don’t know…” he quieted down somewhat, voice trailing off into silence but no less panicked than before.

“You don’t know?” Dorian asked, trying to understand.

“I… It didn’t look like the Fade, but it felt…” Aldaron shuddered at the memory and wrapped his arms around himself. “It felt the same. It felt wrong.”

Dorian remembered the feeling, like his body knew it wasn’t supposed to be there. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He wanted to, but he didn’t touch Aldaron, uncertain if, in his fear, the elf would allow it. “She took you through it?” he asked, “And you went?”

“I didn’t know,” Aldaron whimpered, leaning into him, and that was all the invitation Dorian needed. “I didn’t know where it went. I thought… I don’t know.”

Arms around his shoulders, Dorian pulled him into a loose embrace. “She must have explained it somewhat. What did she say?”

Aldaron was still trembling, but he relaxed somewhat in Dorian’s arms, rested his head against the man’s shoulder. “She called it the Crossroads. Not actually the Fade, but… Somewhere in between? She said all the eluvians lead there. It was… empty. Dead. Nothing but mirrors, and all of them dark.”

“But it wasn’t the Fade,” Dorian concluded. Aldaron shook his head silently. “But it still frightened you.”

“It was too close,” Aldaron breathed, “It felt the same. I remembered…” He shuddered and his hands fisted in Dorian’s shirt, unable to continue the line of thought.

Dorian didn’t push him for further explanation. He could imagine what it had reminded him of, Dorian had been there himself, after all. “You’re alright, amatus,” he said softly. “Nothing bad happened, right? You’re safe here.”

“It’s safe, right?” Aldaron asked quietly. “That thing?”

“I presume so,” Dorian replied. “Provided she closed the door after you, as it were. We wouldn’t want your people to go falling through it on accident. But if the other side is truly empty then I imagine there’s little danger of anything coming through. Do your advisors know about this?”

“Not yet,” Aldaron had to admit. “I couldn’t…”

Of course, the Inquisitor had barely been holding himself together when he showed up in the library. He’d probably gone straight there. “Well, I’m certain they could post some guards or something, if that would make you feel better. Or I suppose you could make her get rid of it. This is your castle, after all, you can throw out whomever or whatever you like.”

“I don’t think the Empress would be very happy if I threw out her adviser,” Aldaron murmured. Very slowly he released his grip on Dorian’s shirt, lifted his head and took a step away from him. It broke Dorian’s hold on him and the man reluctantly let his arms fall back to his sides. “I’m alright now, thank you.”

“You’re sure?” Dorian asked.

Aldaron took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then straightened himself again and offered Dorian a shy smile. “Yes. Sorry for interrupting your reading.”

“Not at all,” Dorian assured. The book had been fascinating, but it would be there later. Aldaron was more important. “Although now that we’re here,” Dorian smirked and stepped up to him again, sliding an arm around Aldaron’s waist, “We could make the most of it.”

Aldaron’s cheeks colored adorably. Honestly, how did he still get embarrassed after all this time? “I should be working,” he protested, though it lacked conviction.

“Surely you could take a break,” Dorian murmured. “You’ve been locked up in the war room for the past three days. I’ve hardly seen you.” Dorian had missed him, if he was honest with himself. For weeks they hadn’t shared a bed, but they had still been able to spend time together.

“I’m sorry,” Aldaron replied, and he did look a little guilty about it. “There’s been so much to do. And I really do need to tell the others about this.”

He was right, of course. Damn him. Dorian sighed in defeat and threw his hands in the air as he stepped away from Aldaron again. “Fine, I give up. Off you go, then. Very important inquisiting to do.” He supposed he should get used to this. After all, the Inquisitor was a very important person who had to do very important things. In comparison Dorian was nobody (though he would never admit as much).

“Dorian, I am sorry,” Aldaron insisted. He reached out and laid a hand on Dorian’s wrist, tentative. “I’m not avoiding you on purpose, I swear.”

“Yes, I know,” Dorian sighed again. He was being childish. It was hard not to be. “I am being selfish. I apologize.”

Aldaron offered him a small smile, “I’ll make it up to you. Tonight. We’ll have dinner and then I’m all yours. I promise.”

“That’s a tempting offer, amatus,” Dorian replied. Too tempting to turn down. “But is it a promise you’re certain you can keep?”

The hesitation before Aldaron spoke again was telling enough. Dorian was already prepared for a disappointment when his lover spoke again. “I will,” Aldaron said insistently, much to Dorian’s surprise. “I will, Dorian.”

He certainly sounded like he meant it, and Dorian didn’t doubt that he would try. “Very well, then,” he replied, allowing himself for now to believe it was possible. Potentially hours to themselves. It would take a miracle, but Aldaron was surprisingly good at miracles. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Of course Aldaron missed dinner.

Dorian waited around for as long as he dared before giving up and going to eat in the main hall with the others. It was hardly surprising, really. Aldaron was not very good at telling his advisers ‘no’ when they demanded his attention. It was, however, painfully disappointing. He wondered how long they would keep him occupied and, shamefully, if Aldaron was even trying to get away. He scolded himself for the latter as he climbed the stairs up to the Inquisitor’s tower room later that evening. (Still not _their_ room despite the fact at least half of Dorian’s possessions had migrated there over time. Dorian wasn’t quite ready for the sort of commitment those words implied.)

The bells had chimed the ninth hour before Dorian heard the door slam open and footsteps race up the stairs. He had since retired to the sofa with a book, determined to be there if Aldaron ever did manage to show up. By the time he looked up the elf was standing there panting like he’d just run up several flights of stairs. He’d probably run all the way from the hall. Dorian wanted to be angry with him. In fact he had been until the moment Aldaron had appeared in front of him panting and distressed.

“I’m sorry,” the elf said before Dorian could even open his mouth or close his book. He was still breathless, words coming out between gasps as he caught his breath. “I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t.”

“Sit down before you have a heart attack,” Dorian scolded lightly.

Aldaron did so, his breathing beginning to even out. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Really.”

“It’s very difficult to be mad at you when you’ve clearly just run up all the stairs to apologize,” Dorian said. “What were you going to do if I wasn’t here? Run all the way to my quarters?”

“Probably,” Aldaron admitted honestly. His breathing was finally back to normal and he pushed a hand through his windswept hair. “I promised you I’d be here. I feel awful.”

“I forgive you,” Dorian sighed. “I imagine you were doing something of vital importance. And as much as it pains me to admit: probably more important than me.”

“You’re still very important, Dorian,” Aldaron assured him. “I would much rather be here with you than going over treaties.”

“I’m happy to know I rank above paperwork in terms of enjoyable pastimes,” Dorian teased.

Aldaron groaned, “You know what I mean.”

Dorian did, but he couldn’t help teasing. He had grown up surrounded by politics, he certainly understood when personal feelings had to be put aside in favor of more important things. Saving the world was certainly more important than Dorian’s feelings of neglect. It wasn’t even neglect. They had certainly been apart for longer than this and still saw each other every night. But a few days of busy work and Dorian was reduced to the likes of a pining maiden from one of Cassandra’s novels. It was shameful. “Did you eat, at least?” Dorian asked, an effort to change the subject.

Aldaron stared down at his toes. “No,” he admitted quietly.

Dorian heaved a long suffering sigh. “Honestly, how anyone expects you to save the world is beyond me. You can’t even take care of yourself.”

“That’s what I have you for,” Aldaron replied, looking up again and cracking a hesitant smile.

“Indeed,” Dorian shook his head, “What would you do without me? Starve to death, I imagine. Come, then, let’s find you something to eat. Then you can make good on the second half of your promise. You do still intend to make good on that part, yes?”

“Of course,” Aldaron replied. He blushed a little but he smiled all the same, “I’m all yours.”

“Good,” Dorian smirked and stole a kiss from the elf’s lips before standing up. “I plan on keeping you to myself for a while. No more Inquisitor work until the sun is up.”

Aldaron chuckled as he rose to his feet as well. “No Inquisitor work until the sun is up. I promise,” he vowed.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dorian replied.

 

* * *

Aldaron woke with a gasp, a shock so severe it had him sitting straight up in bed. The motion dislodged Dorian, who had been rather firmly wrapped around him in his eternal quest to stave off the Ferelden cold, and the mage was none too happy about it. With mumbled curses Dorian rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “If this continues I’m going to have to start wearing armor to bed,” he grumbled, voice rough from disuse.

Aldaron’s head whipped around and he stared down at the man. He hadn’t meant to wake him, or be so rough on him, but he had needed to assure himself immediately that he was awake.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian asked when his eyes focused and he finally looked at Aldaron’s face. “Another nightmare?”

“No, I…” Aldaron wasn’t certain how to describe it. “I was in Haven… It looked like it did before… And Solas was there. We talked and… And suddenly I knew it wasn’t real. I knew I was dreaming. So I woke up.”

Dorian stared at him a moment, then propped himself up on one elbow to look at him more easily. “That’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to do?”

“It is,” Aldaron breathed. He could hardly believe it. After all this time, was he starting to make progress? “I did it. He helped, but… I did it, Dorian.” Pride welled up in Aldaron’s chest, likely misplaced, but there it was none-the-less. “I have to go talk to him,” he breathed, and began scrambling to get out of bed.

“What?” Dorian asked in confusion. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“He’ll be awake,” Aldaron said confidently. “He’ll know I’m coming. He was there.”

“Who, Solas? You mean _there_ there? Not just a figment of your imagination?” Dorian asked.

Aldaron nodded as he picked up his clothes off the floor. “It was really him. I know it was.” How, Aldaron wasn’t certain. Nor was he certain he wanted to know, already the thought that Solas had been in his head was a little unnerving.

“Then he’ll understand that you need to sleep,” Dorian said forcefully, and reached out to grab Aldaron’s arm. The touch was enough to stop Aldaron, shirt in hand, and turn his attention back to Dorian. The man still looked tired, half-asleep, and annoyed about being woken up in the middle of the night. “The sun isn’t even up.”

‘No Inquisitor work until the sun is up.’ He’d promised. This wasn’t technically Inquisition business, but Dorian probably didn’t care. The man had made it perfectly clear how he felt about being constantly pushed aside and Aldaron didn’t want to upset him even more or break another promise. “You’re right,” he said softly, and dropped his shirt back to the floor before sitting down on the bed again. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian just huffed and pulled him back down. Aldaron allowed himself to flop back onto the mattress and climb back under the blankets. This was probably more enjoyable than talking to Solas anyway. As soon as he was back in bed Dorian pulled him close once more. “Good job, by the way,” the man murmured, and stifled a yawn against Aldaron’s hair. “I’m very proud of you. Now go to sleep.”

Aldaron smiled and snuggled closer to Dorian, twining their legs together and wrapping his arms around the man’s chest. “Thank you,” he replied quietly. He let his eyes fall shut and for the first time in a long time wasn’t afraid of what he might find on the other side of his eyelids.

 

* * *

Support for the Inquisition was at an all time high, offers for alliance flooding in left and right. Aldaron finally had a handle on the terrors that had been plaguing him for months. Everything was looking up, victory seemed within grasp. So of course that was when everything started falling apart.

First Blackwall disappeared. Left Skyhold without a word to anyone save a stable hand. And tracking him down to Val Royeaux revealed truths about the man that no one had expected. Blackwall was not a Grey Warden at all. He wasn’t even Blackwall. Although the Inquisitor spared the man’s life in repayment for all the good he had done with the Inquisition, his return to their ranks was provisional at best.

The betrayal shook Aldaron’s trust in the man, and indeed in anyone he wasn’t especially close with. He began doubting people he had once trusted. His patience for strangers and nobles was at an all time low. Rumors once easily brushed off were suddenly cause for concern. Whispers of corruption. The Inquisitor pulled favors to cover up the crimes of his companions. What else was he hiding? As though the Inquisitor needed anything more to worry about.

And then came the news from Wycome.


	20. Clan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some gore at the end of the chapter. Not terribly graphic, I think, but there is blood and stabbing.

Sometimes it was easy to forget how young the Inquisitor really was. Few people probably even knew how young he was. In public the Dalish elf handled himself like a seasoned diplomat or a veteran general, not the young hunter who less than a year ago had known nothing of politics or war. All doubts and fears were kept hidden away, and there were plenty of those. So much so that Aldaron frequently threw himself into his work in an effort to prove himself worthy of the faith and trust so many had put in him. Or, currently, to win back some of the trust he had lost.

If you let him, Aldaron would work until he fell asleep at his desk or at the war table. If left to his own devices he frequently forgot to eat. So Dorian had taken it upon himself to make sure his lover remembered to take breaks and eat at least one meal a day. Sometimes it was difficult to get him away from his work, but Dorian was currently making a concerted effort. He’d already coaxed the elf away from his desk with a glass of wine and several soft kisses and had plans for much more when there was a knock on the door. Dorian planned to ignore it until he heard the door open and Cullen’s voice call up the stairs, “Inquisitor?”

“Come in,” Aldaron called back, pulling away from Dorian much to the man’s disappointment. But the sun is up, and that means Dorian come second to the Inquisition.

Cullen reached the top of the stairs in only a moment. Dorian offered him an offhand greeting and stole the glass of wine out of the Inquisitor’s hand before retreating to the bookshelf. He had been meaning to go through and get rid of all the absolute trash on these shelves. Aldaron probably wouldn’t notice, and he wouldn’t read most of these anyway.

“Inquisitor, I’ve just received the report from Wycome,” Cullen was saying, but Dorian wasn’t paying much attention.

Reports. This was bound to be dull. Maybe Dorian should leave now before it became awkward. He downed the rest of the wine and set the glass down on Aldaron’s desk. “I suppose I should let you get back to work,” he said, turning back around. “I’ve taken up enough of your terribly important time.”

“No,” Cullen’s voice was sharp and startled Dorian into stopping as he moved to leave. The Commander cleared his throat awkwardly, “This should take only a moment,” he said, “Then I’ll leave you.”

Dorian was confused. Cullen was acting strange. Aldaron, of course, didn’t notice. He had already taken the report and was beginning to read it. Eager at first for news, Dorian watched as his expression grew troubled, and then downright horrified.

“No…” the elf breathed. His hands were trembling as they held the parchment. “This was supposed to keep them safe… Keep them away from the fighting.” Aldaron’s grip tightened on the parchment, wrinkling it, almost tearing it. Sharply he looked up at Cullen, face twisted with sadness and anger. “How could this happen?” he demanded with a ferocity that Dorian had rarely seen, “How could you let this happen?”

Cullen didn’t seem at all shocked by this response. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly, bowing his head. “We… lost control of the situation. I accept full responsibility.”

By now Aldaron had crumpled the report into a fist and was blinking back tears as he stared down Cullen. Dorian had no idea what was going on, but it was obviously bad. He never liked seeing his lover this upset. “Amatus?” he interrupted calmly before the elf could yell at Cullen any further. Whatever this situation was, he doubted that screaming at the Commander would make it better.  It worked. Aldaron stopped, mouth half open, and turned to Dorian as though he had forgotten the mage was there. “What happened?” Dorian asked.

“He…” Aldaron began, possibly about to accuse Cullen again, but stopped himself. He sucked in a choking breath and blinked rapidly. “They… They’re… gone,” he finished quietly. His eyes flickered down to the parchment in his hand, now crumpled beyond redemption. “My clan. They’re…” his voice hitched and he swallowed heavily. “They’re gone.”

Dorian remembered Aldaron telling him about his clan, and about the trouble in Wycome. He had a fairly good idea now what the report said. Dorian reached out a hand to his lover and the elf practically threw himself in his arms, report falling forgotten to the floor as he clung to Dorian’s shirt and pressed his face into the fabric. Arms wrapped tight around his lover’s shoulders, Dorian glanced up, caught Cullen’s eyes and gave the man a curt nod. He understood why the Commander hadn’t wanted him to leave, and was grateful that Cullen had stopped him. Cullen returned the nod gratefully and turned to leave, quickly leaving the room.

Alone now, the mage turned his full attention to Aldaron. The Inquisitor was trembling in his arms. Full body shudders from head to toe. He should say something, do something, but even after all this time Dorian still didn’t know how best to handle Aldaron’s tears. Comfort and reassurances were not his area of expertise. There was probably nothing he could say to make it better anyway. So he just continued to hold Aldaron close and rubbed his back in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Amatus,” he said softly after a long moment of silence. “Can I do anything?” The elf shook his head without moving away from Dorian’s chest. “Do you… want to talk about it?” the man tried.

That finally seemed to garner a response. Aldaron’s grip on his shirt loosened by a fraction and he pulled away enough that Dorian could see his face. Though his eyes were downcast they were wet with tears. “I…” Aldaron began, but his voice hitched and cut him off. He took a deep breath, tried again, failed again, and spent the next several moments attempting to calm his breathing enough to speak. “You should read the report,” he choked out eventually, and stepped out of Dorian’s embrace. Dorian was reluctant to release him, but allowed his lover to pull away all the same.

Aldaron wandered out to the balcony as Dorian bent to pick up the forgotten report. It was crumpled quite badly, but with careful work he soon had it unfolded enough to read. He had to read it twice just to be certain he fully understood. It was a mess from start to finish. To say the Inquisition troops had lost control of the situation was an understatement. To Dorian it sounded more like they had never had control in the first place.

He understood, but he still did not know what to do to help. What do you say to someone who has just lost their entire family? Setting the report down on the Inquisitor’s desk, Dorian followed the elf onto the balcony. Aldaron was leaning heavily against the railing, grip so tight his knuckles had gone white as he stared out at the mountains.

“Is it my fault?” Aldaron asked before Dorian could even attempt to offer condolences. The question caught the mage off guard. Aldaron turned his face toward him, eyes rimmed red and brows knitted together. He had calmed down enough to speak clearly, but was still obviously distraught. “I gave the order. They warned me that sending soldiers might just make things worse, but I didn’t listen. I… I should have listened.”

“No,” Dorian said without thinking. “No one could have anticipated this. It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is,” Aldaron’s voice was barely a whisper now, and trembling as he fought to restrain his emotions. “I was supposed to protect them,” he whimpered pitifully. “That was my job, and I failed.”

“Amatus,” Dorian sighed and took Aldaron by the shoulders, pulling him away from the railing and into his arms. Immediately the elf latched onto him again, arms around his waist and face buried in the collar of his shirt. “It’s not your fault,” Dorian said again.

The dam broke. The tears came with first a whimper, then a sob, a wail. Aldaron clung to him like a man drowning. He cried so hard his entire body shook. And Dorian let him. He didn’t know what else to do, never did when Aldaron was in such a state, so he just held him for as long as necessary. When the sobs had finally quieted again to small hiccups and whines and Aldaron was shaking like his legs might give out, Dorian pulled him back inside the room and over to the bed. Aldaron refused to let go of him or move more than a few inches away, which made the trip a little awkward, but eventually he managed to get the elf to lie down in bed. Only then was he able to pry Aldaron’s hands off his clothes. The elf was disconsolate. He wiped ineffectually at the tears on his cheeks and stared blankly up at the rafters as Dorian stripped of first Aldaron’s and then his own clothes before climbing into bed with him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dorian asked softly, laying down on his back and pulling Aldaron gently onto his chest. The elf shook his head slightly before resting it against Dorian’s shoulder just above his heart. “Alright. I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

Aldaron did not get out of bed for the rest of the day. Barely let Dorian leave to find them something to eat later in the evening. It was only after many platitudes about everything will be fine, I’ll only been gone a few minutes, I promise, that Dorian was able to pry himself away from Aldaron’s side long enough to run downstairs and find a servant to bring them dinner. When he returned the Inquisitor was curled up in a tiny ball beneath the blankets, clutching a pillow to his chest. He ate only as much as Dorian was able to coax into him with soft pleas and murmured endearments.

Neither of them slept well that night, and the following morning left Skyhold on a mission to the Exalted Plains that had been planned for days and could not be put off for the sake of the Inquisitor’s grief. Dorian had protested it vehemently while they dressed in the morning, but was pointedly ignored. In front his followers Aldaron was composed, if unusually quiet, and no one questioned whether he was fit to be leading an expedition out of Skyhold at the moment. Culled had asked if he was alright while Aldaron saddled his Hart, and the elf informed him curtly that everything was fine. He summarily refused to indulge any further line of questioning, and eventually Cullen gave up.

It took a full three day once they reached the Plains to sort out all the trouble with the Orlesian troops. The whole situation was a mess. “How is it that whenever we show up somewhere the situation is ten times worse than reports lead us to believe?” Dorian asked at once point. No one had yet given him an answer. Frustrating as it was, though, (all this trouble from one necromancer and a band of army deserters?) the action had been a good distraction for the Inquisitor. Since the news about his clan Aldaron had been despondent. It was not the same depression he had fallen into after Adamant. Certainly Aldaron was still experiencing bouts of self-blame for events he had truly had no control over, but there was nothing of fear in his behavior this time. No terrors, no mood swings, no sudden bouts of rage. Dorian might have preferred that, in fact. Aldaron showed no emotion at all most of the time.

The world did not allow the Inquisitor time to grieve the loss of his family, and Aldaron would certainly never allow anyone beyond his closest companions to know anything was wrong. Dorian was certain there were even people in his inner circle who didn’t know.

Aldaron was very good at hiding his emotions when he put his mind to it. Of course if past experiences were anything to judge by the habit usually backfired horribly. At some point it became too much to hold in. Dorian had no desire to be again on the receiving end of an angry breakdown.

So when they had sorted out the mess in the Exalted Plains and the Inquisitor declared a detour to search out the clan of Dalish elves rumored to be in the area for once Dorian did not complain. Because while he hated trudging through the wilderness and wading through rivers he couldn’t begrudge Aldaron the chance to connect with his people. And admittedly he was curious. Aldaron was the only Dalish elf Dorian had ever met. He told plenty of stories about life with his clan, but Dorian had difficulty imagining an existence so different from anything he’d ever known.

As they walked Varric was regaling them with tales of a Dalish elf he had known in Kirkwall. Dorian was not paying much attention. The Inquisitor himself kept jogging ahead, examining the ground or a tree or a stone. The Dalish were known for being secretive, but apparently Aldaron knew what to look for. Unsurprising, really.

Dorian could tell they were getting close when Aldaron seemed to get impatient with his companions, none nearly so good at dodging tree roots as he was. He would trot forward a few steps then look back at the man, dwarf, and Qunari trailing behind him, wait for them to catch up and then run off again. It was clear he wanted to race off down whatever path only he could see, but was restraining himself for their sakes.

They emerged from the trees onto a riverbank and it was The Iron Bull – perhaps due to his height – who spotted anything first. “That them, boss?” he asked, pointing downriver.

Aldaron’s eyes went wide, he stood up on his toes, jogged forward a few steps and stood up on his toes again. “Yes,” he said finally, breathless and excited.

 

* * *

  
Aldaron couldn’t stop himself when he first set eyes on the sails of the aravels over the slope of the hill. There were so few elves in the Inquisition, and even fewer Dalish ones. It was with a strange mixture of joy and sadness that he hurried down the riverbank, practically running, and called out a greeting in their own tongue to the first elf he saw.

Over the past several days Aldaron had barely been able to function for all the grief in his heart. It seemed as though every little thing reminded him of someone from his clan, a friend, a family member. And then just when he thought the pain was subsiding it rose to the surface again, crippling in its intensity. There was anger there, too, at the humans whose own anger and greed had turned them on his people without remorse. He wanted to go to Wycome and find every single person responsible for the slaughter of his family, but he couldn’t. So Aldaron had turned his anger on the demons and corpses and the men that infuriatingly called themselves the Freemen of the Dales as though this land belonged to them. It didn’t.

And with his daggers drenched in blood Aldaron still didn’t feel any better.

But there was a clan here in the Plains. A clan meant a Keeper. Someone he could talk to who would understand and who might know what to say to make him feel better.

At the very least maybe he wouldn’t feel so painfully homesick.

This clan was small, that was the first thing that Aldaron noticed as he approached the camp. Less than two dozen elves, Aldaron guessed, smaller than his own, although Clan Lavellan itself was not particularly large.

He greeted the first elf that came within earshot, a woman who returned the greeting but looked at him and his companions with wary curiosity as they approached. Aldaron imagined he must look a little strange to them, a Dalish elf in shemlen clothes. He had grown so used to these clothes that he didn’t think about it anymore. By the time they reached the camp proper it seemed the whole clan was aware of their arrival – not at all surprising – but the aged Keeper was the only one to approach.

“Andaran atish’an, da’len.” Aldaron’s heart swelled at hearing the familiar greeting, something he hadn’t heard for so long. “I am Hawen, Keeper of this clan. It is good to see another of the People, in this place from which we all came.”

“Savhalla, hahren,” Aldaron replied in kind, nodding his head respectfully. “It’s good to see any of the People after so long. Although, I was surprised to hear of a clan camped so close to the shemlen forts. Has the fighting been causing you much trouble?”

The Keeper sighed, long-suffering and tired. “Where do I begin, da’len?”

Aldaron could only imagine how bad it was here, with the shemlen war raging on their doorstep. They were lucky none of the soldiers had blamed them for the demons and the corpses and come seeking bloody retribution. Although as he listened to Hawen, Aldaron realized the situation was not much better. It also became clear that the Keeper did not fully trust him. Aldaron was one of the People, yes, but he stood here dressed in his shemlen clothes, declared prophet of a shemlen god, leading an organization founded in the name of the Chantry. (Never mind that the Chantry had declared him a heretic, never mind that he had denounced Andraste at every chance. Words mattered little to the Dalish.)

But even though he understood, it still hurt. The first of his people he had seen since this whole mess began and they didn’t trust him. He wasn’t Dalish enough for them.

Well, he would just have to change that.

And he would do it whether or not his companions approved.

“So we’re doing what now?” Dorian asked, walking beside Aldaron as they left the Dalish encampment and headed out onto the plains once more.

“There’s a number of elven ruins in the area; shrines to the Creators from before Orlais stole this land from my people,” Aldaron explained. He knew he was speaking harshly, and it wasn’t like him. But actually standing here, in what should have been his homeland, it was difficult not to feel angry. “Keeper Hawen says some of them have become infested with demons, and those army deserters-” he refused to use the name the group had given themselves “-have been squatting in others. We’re going to clear them out.”

“I’ll agree with you on the demons,” Dorian commented, “But I’m less certain these Freemen – or whatever they call themselves – are any of our concern. We dealt with that necromancer already, I imagine they’re rather harmless without a head.”

“That’s not the point,” Aldaron argued. Maybe a handful of deserters weren’t dangerous when they were no longer being manipulated by Venatori, but it still wasn’t right for them to be defiling sacred ground with their presence.

“Then, what?” Dorian asked. “You’re doing it to impress the old mage? You’ve already promised them an entire camp’s worth of supplies, isn’t that enough? At this point it just feels like he’s using you.”

Aldaron grit his teeth. He loved Dorian, but the man was infuriatingly ignorant at times. He didn’t understand at all. The supplies had been a gesture of good faith. The Inquisition could spare the few resources the clan needed to get back on their feet. This was to prove Aldaron’s loyalty to the People and regain their trust. He was still Dalish, and he still cared about the plight of his people even if he hadn’t had the opportunity to do much about it. Here was an opportunity to do something, however small, and he wouldn’t let it pass him by. “If you don’t like it, then don’t come,” he bit out. “I’ll do this on my own if I have to.”

“Leave him be, Vint,” Bull cut in. The only one of them likely to sympathize; long away from his people and surrounded by a culture so very different from his own. “Can’t you see he’s working through some stuff? This’ll be good for him.”

“We’ve been killing these people for the past three days,” Dorian argued. And it still hadn’t helped. That part went unsaid, but Aldaron knew Dorian was thinking it. Perhaps the others were, too. Bull and Varric were perceptive; they had to have realized something was off with him. “Varric, back me up,” Dorian requested, turning to the Dwarf.

“No, I’m gonna have to agree with Tiny on this one,” Varric replied with a shrug. “You know how elves get about their ruins.” Then he favored Dorian with a sideways look, “Or maybe you don’t.”

Dorian pursed his lips and glared down at Varric for a long moment, then turned away from him. “Well, I can see I’m outnumbered. I’ll just be quiet, then.”

Aldaron wasn’t sure why the mage was protesting. Some misguided feeling of concern? Aldaron hadn’t been the most forthcoming about his feelings, he knew that, but Dorian had to see that clearing demons and humans out of elven ruins was different from clearing them out of human forts. He was protecting the sacred places of his people.

He would have to talk to Dorian about this eventually, but not now. The man fell silent, as promised, and at the moment Aldaron was glad for it.

They cleared out demons and a small group of Venatori from two of the elven ruins without incident. It was not until they reached their third destination that they ran into trouble. The shrine was underground, cramped and dark. Not a good place for a fight, even an expected one. Five men in Orlesian heraldry were waiting at the bottom of the steps, an attempted ambush that ended very badly for one. Aldaron, moving at the head of the group, had expected to find people here, had been poised to defend himself from just such an ambush. At the first sign of movement he sprung into action, spinning out of the way of a sword and striking out with his own blade. This attacker was dead in moments, but the rest would not be so easily done in.

Dragonbone or not, the Inquisitor’s daggers could not easily pierce full plate armor. The confined space did not allow for much maneuvering, either, which put Aldaron at a distinct disadvantage. Plate armor did, however, make an incredible electricity conductor. A shock of lightning from Dorian temporarily paralyzed one soldier and gave Aldaron the opening he needed to slide a blade into the space between the man’s helmet and breastplate. Another went down with armor cleaved straight through by The Iron Bull’s axe, and the fourth to crossbow bolts in the chest and neck.

Four bodies on the floor in steadily growing pools of blood. There had been one more, hadn’t there? Yes. A rogue like him.

Aldaron’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow, body tense still even as he heard the others begin to relax. They weren’t safe yet. There! A flash of movement in a dark corner, moving toward – “Dorian!” No! No he couldn’t loose any more people. He couldn’t lose anyone else that he cared about.

Without thinking he ran for the man. Dorian looked shocked and confused, eyes wide and mouth open to speak when Aldaron slammed bodily into him, knocking the mage out of the way and off his feet. He felt his dagger connect with flesh where he’d held it out blindly in the direction of their last assailant. It was buried deep in the throat of a young man in Orlesian armor, too slow to keep from impaling himself on a weapon that appeared in the blink of an eye. Unnerved, Aldaron kicked the body away and took a step back. Then stumbled.

He felt shock more than pain at first. Off balance, lightheaded. Gasping, he staggered to the side. With wide eyes he looked down at himself. Blood was seeping through the outer layers of his clothing, staining the cloth and leather bright red around the hilt of a blade sticking almost comically from his side. But his mind could not register how it had happened. Then the pain hit, sharp and intense and burning, stealing his breath and making him stumble again. Daggers fell from his hands and clattered to the ground, but he didn’t hear them. Pressed a hand to the growing red spot at his waist and then pulled it away to stare at his bloody palm in confused horror.

How underwhelming, something in the very back of his mind whispered. Explosions and avalanches and archdemons and darkspawn, and what finally did in the Herald of Andraste was the chipped blade of an army deserter.

He thought he heard someone screaming his name, but they sounded so far away. He could barely register anything except the blood and the pain. His vision began to blur, he felt weak, tired. Beneath him his legs gave out, knees buckling, sending him to the ground in a heap. Reactions sluggish, he was unable to catch himself and landed with a thud, skull bouncing off the stones. And then everything went dark.


	21. After

Aldaron woke disoriented and confused, his head swimming and his mouth tasting like elfroot and spindleweed. He became aware of his surroundings very slowly. First the bed of soft furs and rough spun blankets he was lying in, then the familiar beams of an aravel above his head. Where was he? Home? Had all of this been some kind of extended nightmare? Then the pain registered; the ache in just about every muscle of his body, a pounding in his head and the more intense stabbing pain in his back and side. With weak, trembling arms he lifted the blanket that was covering him and looked down. Someone had stripped him down to his breeches and there were wide linen bandages wrapped around most of his torso.

The memories all came back to him in rush. The fight in the shrine, daggers aimed at Dorian’s back, blood on his hands and fear and pain. He dropped the blanket and covered his face with his hands, sucking in a deep breath. He felt nauseous.

What had happened after that? He couldn’t remember, and his mind was still muddy from the drugs. Slowly he lowered his hands and looked around again with tired eyes. He was definitely in an aravel. On a hook on the wall his daggers hung in their sheaths, his bloodstained clothing folded in a neat pile on the floor. They must have brought him back to the Dalish encampment, but where were the others? Where was Dorian? Was he alright?

Aldaron tried to push himself up, but the sharp pain in his side sent him back down again with a whimper. Moving wasn’t an option, then, but he didn’t want to be in here alone without knowing whether his friends were safe. Helpless and more than a little frightened by it, Aldaron looked around the inside of the aravel rather frantically for something, anything, that might help. But there was very little in here save the bed of furs he lay on and his things. The walls were lined with bundles of dried and drying plants, several jars and bottles sat out on a shelf beside a roll of bandages, but all else was shut away in the various drawers, compartments and trunks that filled all aravels to ensure their contents didn’t get knocked about during travel. There was nothing that would help him get up or see what was going on outside. Aldaron didn’t like that. He felt trapped, confused and scared, brought back to a half-dozen incidents of childhood injury or illness that had seen him confined just like this.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness. His body wanted to sleep, but his mind would not let him. Eventually he drifted back to consciousness to the sound of raised voices coming from outside.

“If everything is fine then why can’t I see him?”

Dorian. That was Dorian’s voice. He was alright. Instinctively Aldaron tried to sit up again, and once more the pain sent him back down, whimpering and clutching his wounded side.

“He needs to rest,” someone else said, a voice that sounded familiar but Aldaron couldn’t place it.

“What do you think I’m going to do, exactly? Take him dancing? I just want to see that he’s alright.”  
  
There was another voice, but too soft for Aldaron to make out the words.

“I am calm!” Dorian snapped. He sounded anything but. “He’s the one being difficult and unreasonable.”

“Once he wakes up, if he wants to see you—,”

“If?” Dorian sputtered.

“Then you’ll be permitted,” the other voice continued, “For now he needs to sleep.”

“I’m not going to wake him up!”

Still groggy, it took Aldaron a while to figure out that they were talking about him. Someone wasn’t letting Dorian see him. Why not? He wanted to see Dorian. He wanted to make sure the man wasn’t hurt.

“I’m afraid I can’t take that risk. You’ll simply have to wait. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a patient to see to.”

“I ought to--,”

“Now, now,” that third voice cut in, now loud enough for Aldaron to hear clearly. It was familiar, too. Varric? “Let’s not do anything we’ll regret. Come on, Sparkler…” he trailed off, once more too quiet for Aldaron to make out the words.

Whatever was said seemed to stop the argument, but that did nothing to calm Aldaron’s nerves. He was trapped and alone and in pain and he was scared and he wanted to see Dorian. Fortunately, he was not left alone for much longer. Toward the far end of the aravel someone pulled open the door, immediately drawing Aldaron’s attention with the sound of creaking hinges and the flood of daylight. “ _Hahren_ ,” he breathed as the elder elf ducked through the opening, and was startled by how rough his voice sounded, and how weak.

“You’re awake,” Hawen observed as he climbed into the aravel, “That’s good to see, _da’len_. How are you feeling?”

“Dorian. Where’s Dorian?” Aldaron asked straight away, ignoring the question.

The Keeper frowned in confusion. “Dorian?” he repeated, “You mean the shemlen mage?”

Aldaron nodded urgently, “Please. Where is he? Is he alright?”

“All of your companions are unharmed,” Hawen assured him. “The Qunari returned to your camp to send word of your injury. You won’t be well enough to travel for the next several days.”

Aldaron didn’t care about that right now. He’d been injured trying to protect Dorian, and he needed to know that the man was safe. Needed to see with his own eyes that Dorian was unharmed. “I want to see Dorian,” he pleaded, and would likely be ashamed later of how much he sounded like a child crying for his parents. “Please, let me see him.”

“You’re in no shape for visitors at the moment, _da’len_ ,” Hawen protested.

“ _Sathan, hahren_ ,” Aldaron begged.

The elder elf stared at him a long moment. Confused? Concerned? Aldaron couldn’t quite tell and still wasn’t able to think clearly. “Very well,” he relented, sounding none too pleased, “The shemlen can come in _after_ I’ve checked your wounds.”

Aldaron breathed out a shaky sigh, but even in the midst of his roiling emotions realized that was probably the best compromise he would get. So he did not complain as the Keeper plied him with potions and unwrapped the bandages at his waist to reveal what had been healed down to an angry red gash. “The blade was poisoned,” Hawen explained as he prodded at the wound, but Aldaron was barely listening. It hurt to move and it hurt when the Keeper touched any of the inflamed red skin around the wound. “I’ve done what I can with magic, the rest will have to heal on its own.” Aldaron nodded more because it was expected than because he wanted to reply.

The pain began to fade as Hawen’s potions took effect, making him feel groggy and disoriented again, but Aldaron forced himself to stay awake as the Keeper wrapped fresh bandages around his waist. “I really do insist you rest further, _da’len_ ,” Hawen said as he helped Aldaron lay down when he was patched up again.

Aldaron shook his head weakly. His body seemed to agree with the Keeper, but he needed to see that Dorian was safe before he could even think about going back to sleep.

“Very well,” the Keeper sighed as he moved away from Aldaron’s side. “I shall send in your _shemlen_ companion.”

Aldaron was relieved. He let his eyes drift closed as he listened to Hawen put away jars of herbs and then leave the aravel, only opening them again when the door once more creaked open several minutes later. He tilted his head up to see better and there was Dorian, silhouetted against the daylight outside. “ _Vhen’an_ ,” Aldaron breathed a sigh of relief that came out almost a sob as he finally laid eyes on the man. There was blood on his robes, but he didn’t look injured, so it didn’t seem to be his own. Aldaron reached an arm out toward him weakly and Dorian scrambled rather inelegantly to his side, taking the elf’s hand in his own as soon as it was within reach. “You’re alright.” He’d been so scared, not knowing.

“I’m alright?” Dorian asked incredulously, sitting as comfortably as he could in the cramped space. “You’re the one who got stabbed, you reckless idiot. Why would you do that?”

“They were going to hurt you. I couldn’t…” Aldaron swallowed heavily against the sudden lump in his throat. “I can’t loose anyone else,” he finished quietly.

“Is that what all this has been about?” Dorian asked. “You’ve been acting… Well, I imagine you know how you’ve been acting.”

Not like himself. Reckless and angry. Now, drugged and aching, he could no longer pretend that everything was fine. Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut and flung an arm over his face – the one that wasn’t still clinging to Dorian. “I would go back in time and let all of Wycome burn if it would save them,” he breathed, barely above a whisper and choked with tears.

“There are a hundred reasons why that is a terrible idea,” Dorian said, almost flippantly, then paused. “And I imagine you’ve already thought of every one,” he finished with much more solemnity.

Aldaron had. Maybe not a hundred reasons. His one experience with time travel was enough of a reason to never try it again, no matter how tempting. That didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. “I wish none of this had ever happened.”

“This?” Dorian asked.

“Corypheus, the Inquisition… all of it,” Aldaron clarified. The lump in his throat made it hard to talk. All the medicine and exhaustion fogging his mind made it impossible to hold back the torrent of emotions raging through him. Tears welled up, choked his voice and slipped out even though he squeezed his eyes shut. “I want to go home,” it came out in a choked whisper, breathless and haggard. He swiped at the tears on his cheek once to little effect, then gave up. Despite the pain it caused to move, he rolled onto his uninjured side to lie facing Dorian and rested his forehead against the man’s thigh. “I want to go home.” He missed his family. He missed his friends. But his family was dead and his home didn’t exist anymore. There would be no going back. Not now, not ever.

Hands fisted in Dorian’s robes, Aldaron finally gave in and let out the pain he’d been holding in for so long. Tears flowed freely and sobs wracked his body. He was vaguely aware of fingers threading through his hair, a hand rubbing his arm, a voice murmuring words he didn’t even try to understand. Eventually the tears and the pain and the concoction of herbs he’d been fed proved too exhausting and Aldaron drifted back to sleep.

 

* * *

  
The next time Aldaron woke he was less disoriented, less exhausted, and in notably less pain. But he was once more alone.

Inside an aravel – not exactly like the ones his clan had used but similar enough – Aldaron should have felt safe, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only reasons he’d ever spent an extended period of time inside the wagons were bad. Sick, injured, confined. A scared child hiding from _shemlen_ bandits held tight in his mother’s arms, hands pressed over ears to muffle thunder in the middle of the night. Angry, locked in until you learn your lesson; raging until the anger turned to fear, let me out, please let me out.

With some difficulty, but not nearly as much as before, Aldaron managed to prop himself up on his elbows to get a better look at his surroundings. At the far end of the aravel the door was closed by not latched, standing just a hair’s breadth ajar. That was comforting, but Aldaron would still rather be out there than in here. It was significantly harder to get himself fully upright. By the time he managed a sitting position - albeit leaning heavily against the wall – Aldaron was winded and the wound in his side was protesting vehemently. He was still there, just barely catching his breath, when the door opened.

“You’re awake,” Dorian observed from the doorway. “And making a break for freedom, from the looks of things. Can you put the escape attempt on hold long enough to eat something? At least I assume this is meant to be food.”

Aldaron could barely remember the last time he’d eaten something. How long had he been in here, drifting in and out of sleep as his body healed? He was starving. “What is it?” he asked.

“Perhaps you can tell me,” Dorian replied. He came over to Aldaron’s side and handed him a bowl as he sat down. Aldaron shifted to sit more comfortably against the wall of the aravel and accepted it. The contents were a sort of thick soup, chunks of overboiled vegetables and meat floating in the dark broth. Aldaron sniffed it curiously, then lifted the wooden spoon set in the bowl and took a bite. The taste was so comfortingly familiar that he could almost cry. Instead he quickly took another bite, then another, wolfing down the meal like a man starving. He only managed to restrain himself from licking the bowl clean when he realized that Dorian was staring at him. “Either you were starving or that tastes much better than it looks,” he man said.

Aldaron flushed in embarrassment and set the bowl down beside him. Both, really, but he doubted Dorian would agree on the second part. “It’s… very Dalish,” he replied eventually. “Nothing like what the cooks at Skyhold make.”

“And what is it, exactly?” Dorian asked. “It looks like whatever they could find dumped in a pot.”

“Yes… essentially,” Aldaron replied. “It’s good for when resources are low. Or for all the extra scraps that aren’t good by themselves.” All the bits of fat and organ meat leftover from a hunt, the overripe fruits and vegetables, the tasteless greens. And a few things that Dorian was probably happier not knowing about. Usually a sign of hard times, and Aldaron felt bad taking resources from a clan that was clearly struggling. He would make certain they were paid back multiple times over.

“So they’re serving you leftovers?” Dorian asked.

“They don’t have to serve us anything at all,” Aldaron pointed out. He was grateful for their help, but knew they would have had every reason to refuse.

“They haven’t been serving us anything at all,” Dorian replied. “You’re the only one they’re offering food to. The rest of us are being quietly shunned. I think they’re only tolerating us for your sake.”

Aldaron looked over at him in surprise. “What, really?” he asked. It was clear that Keeper Hawen didn’t trust the others, but did the clan actually care about his own wellbeing? The thought wasn’t as cheering as Aldaron had expected. He had wanted the clan to accept him, he should be happy about it. So why wasn’t he?

“Yes, really. They’ve been civil. And the children have become quite taken with Varric’s stories, but they don’t like me very much, I think,” Dorian commented, and he didn’t seem at all upset about it. “Not that I’m terribly surprised. I am the evil Tevinter magister, after all. They have good reason not to trust me.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Aldaron asked.

“I’m quite used to being the pariah, as you know,” Dorian assured. “Does it bother you?”

“I…” Aldaron started to deny it, and then stopped, because it did. That was why being cared for by the clan didn’t make him happy. “Yes, a little,” he admitted.

Dorian smiled softly, “I’m flattered,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “But you needn’t worry about me. I suppose you’re feeling better?”

“Physically, yes,” Aldaron murmured. It was a simple question, but the answer was much more complicated. Nothing so far had been able to ease the ache in his heart. If anything it was worse since finding the clan. They were no the cure for his homesickness that he had hoped for. And he found that even earning this clan’s trust left him feeling apathetic if they did not also trust the people he cared about.

At first he had planned on going back to his clan after this whole mess with Corypheus was sorted out. Then Dorian had happened and he wasn’t certain anymore. Would they like him, would they accept him? Would Dorian like them? Would Dorian even want to meet them? But he had always wanted to see his family again, to know if they were proud of everything he had done. Now that wasn’t an option. What would he do now when this was all over?

“I was wondering… what happens… after?” Aldaron said quietly.

Dorian looked confused for a moment before Aldaron’s meaning sank in. “Ah, yes. After. Dreadful thing, after,” he said solemnly. “Assuming one or both of us aren’t killed along the way, what do you wish to happen?” he asked, but didn’t give Aldaron a chance to answer before he continued. “We could go our separate ways, if you prefer. I’ve been a port in a storm before. I would understand.”

Aldaron felt his heart clench in his chest. “Of course not!” he insisted immediately, painfully. Was that was Dorian wanted? The thought had never occurred to him that Dorian might not want to stay together when all this was through. “I want us to stay together as long as possible.” He could no longer imagine a life without Dorian. Well, he could, but it was not pleasant.

The man looked startled to hear that, but in his usual fashion was quick to try and laugh it off. “You’re remarkably sentimental for someone who’s killed as many people as you have.”

“Dorian…” Aldaron began. He thought he’d made his feelings about this very clear when he took a knife for the man. Surely Dorian could see how much he cared, or was he being deliberately obtuse?

“Stop with the calf eyes already,” Dorian sighed, “I… don’t know what the future holds. For us or anything. That’s my honest answer. Once Corypheus is defeated, when this is over… I’d like to talk about it more. If you would.”

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. Dorian was right, of course. One or both of them might die before the end. He wanted to believe that the man was just avoiding promises he wasn’t certain he could keep, but couldn’t help fearing the worst: that Dorian didn’t want to stay together. That all of Aldaron’s issues were more than he wanted to deal with.

“What’s brought on this line of questioning so suddenly?” Dorian asked when Aldaron gave no further reply.

The elf bit his lip. He hadn’t spoken of it aloud before, the pain was still too fresh. “I’d always thought when this is all done,” he said slowly, quietly, “That I’d go back to my clan. At least for a while.”

“And that’s no longer an option,” Dorian finished for him.

Aldaron nodded quietly.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” the man said slowly, thoughtfully. “What do your people do for their dead? You have some sort of tradition? Ritual?”

“We bury them…” Aldaron said slowly, “And plant a tree over the grave.”

Dorian nodded and looked up at the rafters of the aravel. “Would that help?” he asked. “We can’t go find their graves, obviously, and I don’t imagine we can plant a tree for every single person – not right away – but perhaps a few? For your family, at least?”

“I… I would like that,” Aldaron said quietly. Perhaps it would offer him the closure he needed. He hadn’t been able to see them before the end. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye.

“Good,” Dorian said. “Let me know what you need, I’ll speak to Josephine for you about… acquiring trees… I’ll even help you plant them, if you like.”

“You would do that for me?” Aldaron looked over at him in surprise.

“Of course,” Dorian shrugged and turned his gaze back to the elf. “You took a dagger for me. You very likely saved my life, amatus. For that I think I can bear some dirt under my fingernails.”

Aldaron smiled, soft and sad, but his first smile in days. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.

Dorian returned the smile, “For you, amatus, anything.”

The gesture meant more than anything at that moment. Aldaron imagined that Dorian thought their tradition simplistic and silly. It likely was compared to whatever humans did to remember their dead. And Dorian would probably hate every second of planting even one tree, but he was offering anyway. He didn’t know the words to convey how much it meant to him. So instead he just asked, “Will you help me go outside?”

“Is that wise?” Dorian asked, and his gaze lingered meaningfully on the bandages around Aldaron’s waist.

“I hate being cooped up like this,” Aldaron begged. “Please. I just want some fresh air.”

Dorian sighed, “Fine, alright,” he relented. “But if you hurt yourself again I’m going to be yelled at by elves and its going to be entirely your fault.”

“I’m fine,” Aldaron tried to assure him, though it wasn’t terribly believable considering he still couldn’t even sit up on his own.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Dorian scolded.

Even getting Aldaron into his shirt and over to the door was a feat. His legs were weak beneath him as Dorian pulled him to his feet. The wound protested movement as intensely as ever and it felt like every muscle in his stomach was on fire. He clung to Dorian’s shoulders as they moved the few steps to the door, which swung open easily with a nudge from Dorian’s boot. Getting down the steps and out of the wagon was even more difficult. What began as an attempt to guide Aldaron slowly down the three steps to the ground ended up with the elf practically falling down the stairs with only Dorian’s arms around his chest keeping him from landing flat on his face. “I told you this was a bad idea,” Dorian complained as he helped Aldaron get his feet under himself again.

It probably was, but Aldaron was happy to be outside again. He turned his face up toward the sky and smiled. “I’m alright,” he said despite the pain and the fatigue, “I just need to sit down for a while.”

There was a fallen log not far from the aravel, and that was where Dorian lead him, sitting them both down on it so that Aldaron could lean against his shoulder. The seat did put them in full view of the rest of the camp, however, and it wasn’t long until they were noticed. Thankfully the first person to do so was Varric, unfortunately he wasn’t very subtle when he spotted them.

“He’s alive after all,” the dwarf said cheerfully as he approached. “That’s a relief. I was afraid Sparkler here was going to set the entire camp on fire when Keeper Grouch wouldn’t let him see you.”

Dorian scoffed, “I would hardly do anything so barbaric, but the man was being completely unreasonable.”

Aldaron vaguely remembered hearing the shouted argument from before. How long ago had that been? How long had he been unconscious? “I’m sorry I worried all of you,” Aldaron said.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, Treehugger,” Varric waved of the apology easily, “Just glad to see you back on your feet.”

“What happened, exactly?” Aldaron asked. “I don’t remember much after…”

“After being stabbed?” Dorian asked, and it was impossible for Aldaron not to notice how he tensed slightly. He felt bad for making them all worry, especially Dorian, but he would rather this than see any of them get injured.

“You collapsed,” Varric said, “Knocked your head pretty bad and wouldn’t wake up. Wouldn’t get a potion down, either, to stop the bleeding. That’s why we brought you here. It was closer than the Inquisition camp. You were bleeding out and Sparkler was having an absolute meltdown. I think he cried.”

“I did not!” Dorian protested. But by the way his cheeks colored Aldaron thought maybe it wasn’t a complete lie.

“You keep telling yourself that, Sparkler,” Varric laughed. “Anyway, Tiny carried you here before going on to report what happened. This one wouldn’t leave,” he gestured to Dorian, “and someone had to stick around to make sure he didn’t set anything on fire while the Keeper patched you up.” Dorian grumbled but by now had given up protesting anything Varric said. “Speaking of,” he added, looking away from them, “Here he comes now. You might want to prepare yourself for a tongue lashing while I make a tactical retreat.”

While Varric did just that Aldaron raised his head from Dorian’s shoulder and looked around the man to see Hawen coming their way. The Keeper did not look terribly pleased. Aldaron had a long history of angering Keepers and it didn’t seem the tradition would be ending. “What is he doing out of bed?” the elder elf demanded when he reached the long where they were seated. “I let you in to see him on the condition that you let him rest.”

Dorian shrugged, “Fortunately I don’t take my orders from you. The Inquisitor commands and I obey.”

Hawen frowned and turned his gaze to Aldaron, who wished he could sit up straight, look more like the leader he was supposed to be. “Is this true?”

“Yes, I asked him to take me outside,” Aldaron said as confidently as he could manage.

“You should be resting,” the Keeper protested, “You lost a significant amount of blood and there may still be poison in your body.”

“I am resting,” Aldaron said. “Outside. Dorian helped me, I didn’t reopen the wound, and I’m already feeling much better from the fresh air.” More relaxed at least.

The Keeper looked like he wanted to argue further, but could think of nothing to say against Aldaron’s points. Maybe all that politicking was finally starting to rub off on him, Aldaron had never won an argument with his Keeper Istimaethoriel. Finally the elder elf spoke up again, “May I speak with you in private for a moment, _da’len_?”

Aldaron was surprised by the question and looked over at Dorian hesitantly. What did the Keeper have to say that couldn’t be said in front of Dorian? The man returned his gaze steadily. “I can leave if you like. I assume you’ll be safe here.”

“I will be,” Aldaron assured him. “Thank you, _vhen’an_.”

Dorian nodded and stood up slowly, helping Aldaron to sit on the ground so that he could rest back against the log easily. Then he left them alone, out of earshot but not out of sight.

“ _Vhen’an_?” Hawen repeated in confusion. “A _shemlen_?”

The word had slipped out without Aldaron even thinking about it. He froze for a moment in fear of how the elder elf would react, how his opinion might change now that he knew the true nature of their relationship. “Yes,” he said slowly, but was afraid to meet Hawen’s eyes. Would this be a further betrayal? Further proof that he wasn’t Dalish enough? “Dorian’s a good man. Nothing else matters,” he found himself saying.

“You trust him?” Hawen asked.

This time Aldaron did look up, did meet the Keeper’s eyes. “With my life,” he affirmed.

“Does you clan know about him?”

The question sent Aldaron silent, his eyes back on the floor. They hadn’t. In the scant number of letters he’d been able to send them since the Conclave he had not had the courage to bring up Dorian. There were rumors, he knew, and maybe some of those had reached his clan. If so, Istimaethoriel had never said anything about it. He had wanted to tell them, but he didn’t have the words. Didn’t have the courage. Just as he lacked the courage now.

“Where is your clan, _da’len_?” the Keeper asked when Aldaron gave no answer.

Aldaron did not answer right away. It was still painful to speak of them in any way. He swallowed heavily before speaking, and even that failed to keep the hitch out of his voice. “Dead.” Down to the last child if the report was accurate, and Aldaron had no reason to believe it was not. He couldn’t look up, eyes already swimming with tears that he fought to keep at bay.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Hawen replied, his voice soft and sympathetic. “I pray that Falon’din lead them safely to the Beyond.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Aldaron bowed his head and blinked back the tears. It did help, hearing someone say those words. “I… owe you an apology, _hahren_. I sought out your clan for selfish reasons. I thought… it might ease the pain, but that was unfair to you. I offered you aid not out of goodwill, but out of the selfish need to gain your acceptance. Your clan is not my own. I can’t expect you to replace them, and I don’t want to burden you further with the trouble I will bring. I’ll still offer you whatever help I can. Any resources that your clan requires to see them safe I’ll ensure you have. I owe you my life, that’s the very least I can do.”

“It is normal to make mistakes, _da’len_ ,” Hawen said gently, “Especially when we are grieving. It takes wisdom and courage to admit when we are wrong. Even here we have heard tales of the Dalish elf the _shemlen_ call the Herald of Andraste. I owe you an apology as well, it seems. I allowed my feelings for the humans and their Chantry to color my judgement of you and your Inquisition. Even if your reasons were selfish, you have helped our clan and reclaimed the sacred places of our people. I do not think another would have done the same. You do your clan proud, Inquisitor.”

Aldaron bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying. All he had ever wanted was to make his clan proud of him. “ _Ma serannas, hahren_ ,” he whispered, not trusting his voice at the moment.

“You and your companions may stay with the clan until you are well enough to travel,” Hawen said, as though he hadn’t just shattered so many of the fears in Aldaron’s heart. “I’ll send your mage back to you,” he added before taking his leave.

Aldaron could only nod, and when Dorian returned to his side he wrapped his arms around the man and held him tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need me I'll be here on the floor in a puddle of tears. Emotionally exhausted from writing this chapter. The number of people who thought I was going to kill off my beloved child is shocking. How dare you.
> 
> Also now that we've learned Varric's nickname for Aldaron is "treehugger" I may write the story behind it on tumblr.
> 
> Elvish:  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Ma serannas - Thank you  
> Sathan - Please  
> Vhen'an - My heart/home (shortened ma'vhen'an)  
> Da'len - Child, little one, young one   
> Hahren - Elder, teacher, wise person


	22. Continuation

It was two days before the Inquisitor was well enough to stand and walk on his own, another before he could do it for more than a few minutes at a time. By then it was decided that they had spent enough time with the Dalish clan and needed to move on.

Aldaron had enjoyed his few days with the elves. At least as much as he could while recovering from a life-threatening injury. He spent many of his waking hours talking to them in a mix of Elvish and Common that Dorian could only understand half the time. The children, in particular, seemed taken with him. Of course they were rather taken with all of the strange visitors. Dorian expected they had never seen a dwarf or a Qunari before. They would listen with rapt attention while Varric told highly embellished tales of the Inquisitor’s many exploits and then run over to Aldaron, excited voices tumbling over each other in a flurry of words Dorian couldn’t even hope to follow. He was good with the children, to Dorian’s surprise, patiently answering their dozens of questions and denying only the most outlandish of Varric’s lies. It was not something he had expected, though perhaps he should have. Aldaron was young himself, no more than a few years older than the eldest of these bare-faced youths. Dorian also remembered his lover telling him once of a younger sister.

When The Iron Bull returned to the Dalish camp it was with more than just their mounts in tow. He’d also brought a portion of the supplies that Aldaron had promised, healing herbs and a small amount of building supplies. The Inquisitor’s red hart was an immediate source of interest. Rare, apparently, and so much larger than the halla. The Bull himself was almost an equal source of curiosity. Some of the children stared openly but most seemed too frightened of his size and his horns to approach. A few of the more daring ones approached after a day when it became more clear that though the Qunari was large and intimidating and loud he was actually very nice.

Dorian, on the other hand, was still being quietly shunned. He was used to it – half of Skyhold still glared at him suspiciously wherever he went – and wasn’t offended, but it was irritating. If the elves were suspicious of him he couldn’t blame them, but all this time he had barely left Aldaron’s side and yet all those who came to fawn over him said not a word to Dorian. Honestly, it was just rude. He could be perfectly polite when the need arose, but by the way they glared you’d think he was about to slap them all in chain for shipment back to the Imperium. (Actually if they thought one man could bring about the ruin of their entire clan he should probably take that as a compliment.)

That the true nature of his relationship with the Inquisitor was now apparently common knowledge likely wasn’t helping his case. Of course that was entirely Aldaron’s fault. The Inquisitor wanted to sleep under the stars (more likely he didn’t want to go back in that wagon) and in his current state Dorian wasn’t about to leave him unattended outside in the middle of the night. That meant Dorian was also sleeping under the stars. Joy of joys. That lead to the rather unpleasant experience of waking up damp with dew, tangled up with Aldaron so badly he wasn’t certain where his own arm was, and with The Iron Bull grinning down at him with barely restrained laughter.

“Aww, you two are adorable,” the Qunari chuckled.

“ _Suge verpam_ ,” Dorian grumbled in reply and flashed the mercenary a rude gesture. It only proved to make the Bull laugh louder as he walked away.

Maker, he hated camping.

“S’it morning?” Aldaron’s voice mumbled from somewhere near Dorian’s shoulder. The brief exchange must have been enough to wake him.

“Unfortunately,” the mage replied.

“Did you curse at Bull?” the Inquisitor asked, still half asleep.

“He deserved it,” Dorian muttered.

Aldaron’s only reply was a noncommittal grunt before he slowly disentangled them enough to raise his head and press a kiss to Dorian’s lips. A kiss that Dorian pulled away from rather quickly. No sense in making these elves hate him even more by flaunting the relationship they clearly disapproved of. Aldaron noticed and frowned. Usually he wouldn’t attempt such a public display of affection – well aware of Dorian’s insecurities – but perhaps he didn’t consider this public. With a sigh that made Dorian feel guilty, the Inquisitor pulled away from him and sat up. “I was hoping we could get an early start today,” he commented, stretching his arms to the sky. The movement made his shirt rise up, revealing the new scar, a thin line just above his left hip. Only when he lowered his arms again and the mark was covered was Dorian able to tear his eyes away. “Get back to camp and see what we’ve missed.”

“You talk as though we’re coming back from holiday,” Dorian said.

“It was a nice break,” Aldaron replied, and looked over his shoulder at Dorian as the man finally sat up.

“A nice break, he says,” Dorian scoffed, “You almost died.”

“I’m fine now, Dorian,” the elf said with a sigh. “Honestly, you can stop worrying.”

Dorian knew he had been hounding the point, but Aldaron really didn’t seem to have taken the incident seriously. He had no idea how terrified Dorian had been watching him bleed out on the ground and helpless to do anything about it. He really needed to learn more healing magic if this was going to become a habit. “Are you saying it won’t ever happen again?”

“No,” Aldaron frowned, and began pulling his boots on, “You know I can’t promise that.”

He did know that, but the knowledge didn’t make it any easier to bear. This was the third time now he had watched Aldaron cheat death. How many more time could he do that before his luck ran out? Dorian spoke flippantly about how one or both of them might die, but the reality of it terrified him. It was so easy to forget that Aldaron was mortal like the rest of them, impossible to imagine that the Herald of Andraste could be taken down by anything less than Corypheus himself.

When he had his boots on Aldaron turned back to Dorian and stared at him for a moment. “Why are you still upset?” he asked, and he sounded like he honestly didn’t understand. “Because I got hurt protecting you? I’m not going to apologize for that, Dorian. I’m not sorry, and I would do it again.”

That was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Dorian wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things, if he died the world would go on without him. Without Aldaron, though… Well, they had seen what would happen without the Inquisitor. “You should care more for your own life,” Dorian protested, “You’re the one that matters. I’m only the adornment upon your arm.”

Aldaron’s frown deepened, “You know you’re more than that to me,” he protested.

And there was the crux of the problem. “You shouldn’t care more about me than the fate of the world. It’ll go on without me. You, on the other hand…”

“Yes, everyone is very fond of reminding me how important I am, I haven’t forgotten,” Aldaron said sharply. He turned away from Dorian then and began pulling on the rest of his armor. “They still don’t need me at all, just this thing,” he grumbled and waved his marked hand in Dorian’s direction. “Presumably it’ll still work even if it’s not attached to me.”

“You can’t possibly still think you’re not important,” Dorian was aghast. He thought they’d been through this.

“What does it matter?” Aldaron asked without looking at him.

“It matters because you matter,” Dorian argued. “You’re more than that mark. It’s not why you’re Inquisitor. It’s why Corypheus wants to kill you, yes, but it’s not why people follow you.”

“Fine, I’m important to the world,” the elf finally admitted begrudgingly, “But you’re important to me.” The statement gave Dorian pause, and Aldaron finally turned his gaze back toward him. Softened now, all the defensiveness bled out of him. “I would have gone mad ages ago if it weren’t for you.”

“I haven’t…” Dorian began to protest that really he’d been quite useless at the whole support and comfort thing, but then Aldaron’s hands were on his face, lips pressing softly against his own and effectively silencing him.

“You’ve done more than you know,” Aldaron murmured. “I can’t promise you I won’t get hurt again, and I’m not sorry for protecting you or anyone else. It’s in my nature to protect what I care about, Dorian.”

“True,” Dorian murmured in response. It was part of what made him a good leader - always looking out for those under him, trying to keep everyone safe. “Would you at least be a bit more careful?”

“I can try,” Aldaron promised. “We are at war.”

“I suppose that’s the best I can ask for,” Dorian was forced to concede. That didn’t make it any easier to watch Aldaron fling himself into danger. And that was a lot harder than he was willing to admit. Varric had ribbed him about crying when the Inquisitor was injured, but the dwarf didn’t know how close to the truth his words had been. Only a lifetime of practice had kept him even remotely composed.

Aldaron offered him a small smile, pressed one more brief kiss to his lips before pulling away. “Now fix your hair so we can leave,” he teased as he stood up.

Self consciously Dorian raised a hand to his head, already smoothing the messy locks back into place. “How bad is it?”

“You don’t want to know,” the elf said, suppressing a laugh as he began packing up their bedrolls.

Immediately the mage was reaching for his pack for a mirror and comb and the wax he used to keep his hair and mustache in place. “You’re cruel, amatus.”

 

* * *

  
It didn’t take long for the Inquisitor and his companions to pack up the few belongings Bull had brought from the camp along with their horses. Aldaron bid farewell to the Dalish elves, sharing a particularly long conversation with Keeper Hawen before nodding to him respectfully and finally turning away. There were gifts as well, small tokens of appreciation for the Inquisitor from various members of the clan. None of them useful that Dorian could tell, but he imagined there was some meaning in the handful of knickknacks that Aldaron deposited carefully into a saddle bag.

And then they were on the road. Aldaron lingered at first, taking a long moment to get comfortable in the saddle, then looking back at the wagons and the elves going about their business as though the Inquisition hadn’t even been there.

He didn’t want to go. Despite his words to the contrary, Aldaron wanted to stay. It was written all over his face as he finally turned away and nudged his hart forward. Dorian cast one last glance back at the camp as well before following. Though he hadn’t particularly enjoyed their short stay with the clan Aldaron had obviously been over the moon with happiness. He supposed if he ran into more of his countrymen who weren’t insane cultists he might feel the same.

The ride back to the nearest Inquisition camp was only a few hours. They were back by midday, which Dorian was grateful for. He’d been wearing the same clothes for four days and he really needed to change. He especially needed to get into something that wasn’t stained with his lover’s blood.

Dorian swung down from his horse and was all ready to disappear into the tent he shared with the Inquisitor to try and get himself clean when a soft gasp drew his attention back to Aldaron. The elf had dismounted as well, but was holding tight to the saddle still, white knuckled legs trembling.

“You alright there, boss?” The Iron Bull asked, having also noticed the Inquisitor’s sudden bout of weakness.

“I’m fine,” Aldaron insisted. He took a deep breath and straightened himself. “Just… sore.”

Dorian frowned in concern. The elf had only been on a horse for a few hours and already he was sore? Maybe he hadn’t been well enough to travel after all. “You should probably have one of our own healers take a look at that wound,” he commented. The Dalish Keeper had done a good job patching him up, and Dorian was grateful, but it would make him feel better if a properly trained mage took a look at that injury.

“I said I’m fine,” Aldaron protested. He took his hands from the saddle as though to prove he was strong enough. To his credit the elf didn’t waver, but one hand went immediately to the small of his back, pressing against a sore muscle. Not completely fine.

“It’s not a bad idea boss,” Bull said. “Poisoned blade right in all your important bits? That’s not the sort of thing you want to mess around with.”

“Says the man who shrugged off an assassination attempt,” Aldaron said pointedly.

“You have me there,” Bull was forced to concede. Then he offered Dorian a shrug that seemed to say ‘I tried’. Well, he appreciated the effort, wasted as it was.

“If he says he’s fine, he’s fine,” Varric cut in, “He’s not the only one who’s sore. Dwarves were not built for horses.”

It seemed he had no reliable allies, so Dorian decided to give up for now. “We could always find you something smaller, Varric. A nug, maybe?”

“You’re hilarious, Sparkler,” the dwarf replied with a roll of his eyes.

“How kind of you to notice,” Dorian sighed, “My wit is so often wasted on you southern barbarians. As is my impeccable taste in fashion. Which I think is my cue to go change into something that isn’t covered in filth.” He cast another look in the Inquisitor’s direction, but Aldaron had taken use of Varric’s distraction and lead his hart over to the trough to drink while he unsaddled it.

Maybe he was just sore from inactivity. Maybe Dorian was just being overprotective. That was always a possibility.

The man shook his head and began removing his filthy robes before he even reached the tent he shared with the Inquisitor. He took his time cleaning up as much as was possible without proper bathing facilities and changed into relatively cleaner robes (nothing stayed clean while traveling, even if it never came out of his pack). When he emerged from the tent once more he felt much more himself. Before leaving Tevinter this state would never have been acceptable. My how his standards of cleanliness had fallen.

The Inquisitor was sitting on the ground to the side of their tent, feet bare and legs stretched out in front of him with a map laid over his knees. Reports were scattered on the grass beside him, more in his hands as he used a stick of charcoal stolen from the fire to scribble notes. He was still wearing the same leather armor stained with his own blood, yet seemed entirely unperturbed by it. He seemed entirely unperturbed by the injury as a whole, and perhaps that was why Dorian had been so anxious himself. If Aldaron wasn’t going to worry about his own health someone had to. 

“Is all this from the few days we were gone?” Dorian looked down incredulously at the pile of papers – some the small scrolls carried by Leliana’s ravens and others proper letters handed off by runners and scouts. “One would think you’ve been gone a month.”

“It wasn’t a good time for me to disappear,” Aldaron said without looking up. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glaring at the report in his hand. The Inquisitor was not fond of reading, still had trouble with longer words from time to time. “The scouts are certain now that Corypheus’ forces are amassing in the Arbor Wilds. Morrigan thinks there’s another eluvian there that he wants. He’s definitely been targeting elven ruins…” He paused and scribbled something in his nearly unintelligible chicken scratch on the report in his hand before setting it aside and taking up another. “Whatever he’s after, we have to make sure we get it first.”

“It sounds as though you already have a plan,” Dorian remarked, taking a seat beside him on the grass.

“The Inquisition army is ready to move,” the Inquisitor said thoughtfully, “The soldiers here are finally heading back to Val Royeaux and the Orlesian troops will soon be able to move out as well. They’ll be slow; it’ll take at least a week for them to reach the Arbor Wilds. We’ll have to push on through the Emerald Graves and meet them there. I wasn’t planning to spend so much time here.”

Dorian could have said something about injuries ruining plans, but thought it better to keep his mouth shut. He’d irritated Aldaron enough about that today. It wouldn’t do any good to make him angry again. Still, he worried. Aldaron had been sore after only a few hours on horseback. Was he really well enough for a longer trip? “Why go through the Emerald Graves?” he asked, peering at the map spread out across the Inquisitor’s lap. He still wasn’t wholly familiar with the geography down south. “Seems a bit out of the way.”

“There’s a man there who says he has information for us,” Aldaron explained, shuffled through some papers before finding a report and handing it to Dorian. “He also wants help getting rid of those ‘Freemen of the Dales’,” at the name he let out a scoff of disgust that would have made Cassandra proud.

“Couldn’t you just send some of your scouts?” Dorian asked, “It seems a simple enough task.”

Aldaron shook his head, “This man will only speak to the Herald of Andraste,” he muttered.

“You sound thrilled,” Dorian observed dryly.

“How many times do I have to tell people I’m not the Herald of Andraste before they start believing me?” Aldaron grumbled.

“I’m not sure they ever will,” Dorian shrugged. Part of him still believed, even after everything he’d seen and despite all of Aldaron’s vocal protests. The elf was always happy to remind everyone that he didn’t believe in the Maker. Dorian believed, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. Saying anything about it would just upset Aldaron, and his lover had enough on his plate already.

Aldaron sighed wearily and turned his attention back to the reports in his hands. “Whatever information he has had better be good,” he complained. “I would like to deal with these Freemen, but you’re right, it is out of our way.”

“You seem to hate these men a lot more than you’re average bandits and highwaymen,” Dorian observed. “Any particular reason?”

“Everything we’ve seen of them so far… They walk around like the Dales belong to them by rights,” Aldaron groused. “The Dales don’t belong to them.”

“Who do they belong to?” Dorian asked curiously. It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Aldaron looked up at him sharply, brow furrowed and mouth a hard line. It took his mind a moment to realize what he should have from the start. “The elves. Of course, how stupid of me,” he said quickly. “It was so obvious I couldn’t think of it.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed dangerously for a moment, then he turned back to his reports. “You’re fairly perceptive… for a _shem_. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“You’re teasing me,” Dorian said. Aldaron hid a smile behind the papers in his hands. “Such cruelty, amatus,” he clapped a hand to his chest in dismay, “And after all I’ve done for you. I slept outside for you!” He let himself fall back onto the grass, one arm flung out to the side and the other across his face, “How will I ever recover from this betrayal?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Aldaron laughed. When Dorian took his arm away from his eyes he saw that the elf had set aside all of his papers and his shoulders were shaking with restrained laughter. As he watched Aldaron pushed the map off of his lap and leaned over, arms on either side of Dorian’s head as he leaned down to press their foreheads together. “Thank you for sleeping outside with me. I know you hate camping.”

What did he ever do to deserve this beautiful creature’s affections?

“Only for you, amatus,” he breathed.

“Hey get a room, you two!” Varric’s voice cut through the camp and just like that the moment was broken.

Aldaron turned red all the way up to the tips of his ears and sat up so quickly he nearly fell over backwards, pulling his hands away from Dorian sharply. Dorian himself felt his face heat up but he managed to get himself upright with a bit more grace. He sent a glare in the direction of the dwarf, sitting smugly by the fire. “Mind your own business, dwarf,” he snapped.

“You’re about ten feet away from me, Sparkler. I couldn’t if I tried,” Varric called back.

“Well then clearly you’re not trying hard enough, Varric,” Dorian scoffed. “Although I know it’s terribly difficult to tear your eyes away from someone as handsome as I am.”

That got him a bark of laughter from the dwarf. “You’re not really my type, Sparkler. Just take it back to the tent if you’re gonna do any of that, alright?”

“Hey, if they want to put on a show that’s fine by me,” The Iron Bull laughed from the other side of the fire.

Dorian’s retort was cut off as Aldaron shoved him lightly on the shoulder, pulling his attention back. The elf’s ears were still red. “If you’re going to fight with him go do it somewhere else, I have work to do.”

“You weren’t complaining a moment ago,” Dorian said with a smirk that brought the color back to Aldaron’s cheeks. “Am I distracting you with all my charm and good looks?”

“Yes,” Aldaron admitted, “So go be a distraction somewhere else. I have to send orders back to Skyhold and I want to leave in the morning.”

“Are you certain you’re well enough for so much traveling?” Dorian asked in concern.

Aldaron sighed, “I’m fine,” he said again. “I’m sore because I’ve been sitting around for days doing nothing. I need the exercise.”

Dorian didn’t quite believe him, but Aldaron was stubborn when he wanted to be and hated to admit any kind of weakness. Badgering him likely wouldn’t go well. “Alright,” he relented, “I’ll let the others known not to get too comfortable. Don’t work yourself too hard.”

“I won’t,” Aldaron promised, and flashed a lopsided smile before turning back to his reports.

He did seem alright for now. That would have to be good enough for Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some filler for your 4th of July weekend.
> 
> A full year of Latin in college and I'm using that knowledge to make Dorian say "suck a dick". What quality life decisions I've made.


	23. Graves

Two days they had been in the Emerald Graves and from the moment they had stepped into the forest the Inquisitor had been distracted. Not distracted like he’d been in the Plains – angry and reckless – rather, he moved through the trees sometimes as though in a daze. That Aldaron loved trees was no secret from anyone, so Dorian had expected a little bit of odd behavior when he first set eyes on this place, but this was not the same. It was like Aldaron wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings at all. He kept staring up at the canopy as they walked, craning his neck to look up at the sky until he tripped over a rock or a root and his attention was roughly brought back to earth. Five minutes later he was staring up at the sky again. When the paths took them close enough to the massive trunks he would reach out, let his fingers graze over the bark and slow his steps for a moment for pulling himself away.

It was different from his usual fondness for nature. They had been to large forests before, seen some rather impressive trees in their travels and Aldaron had never behaved like this before. But Dorian was having a hard time puzzling out what was different about this place. Why had it effected his lover in such a way?

Of course, those thoughts were reserved for when they weren’t being attacked by Freemen, or Templars, or bears, or demons. Which was not very much time at all.

Aldaron’s distraction thankfully didn’t extend into battle. When they were attacked his focus returned and he was all business. But as soon as it was over and he’d cleaned off his daggers he was back to staring at everything like a child on Satinalia morning.

“Why do they call it the Emerald Graves?” Dorian asked while they were walking. On their way back to camp after routing out what was hopefully the last of the lyrium smugglers in the area. “Did they bury people here?”

It got Aldaron’s attention. The elf lowered his gaze from the leaves and slowly turned toward Dorian, eyes wide and full of melancholy. That was when it clicked, and then Dorian couldn’t believe it had taken him two days to put the pieces together. The Dalish planted trees on their graves. “Are all of these…?” he asked hesitantly.

“Probably,” Aldaron’s voice was soft, wistful. “Most of them from the Exalted March.”

Dorian suddenly felt horrified. They were walking through a graveyard. Each tree a tombstone. No wonder Aldaron was acting so strange. To have just lost his own family and now be walking through the graves of his ancestors. Dorian couldn’t even imagine what that felt like.

“Wait, are you saying there’s actual graves here?” Varric asked. “I thought they were just being poetic. Orlesians do that.”

Dorian waited for Aldaron to answer, but the elf just turned away and kept walking, eyes on the path ahead. Left it to him, then. “The Dalish plant trees to mark their graves.”

The silence that followed was pointed and deafening until finally it was broken by Varric muttering a single word. “Shit. And the Orlesians build their summer homes out of them,” he observed. “That’s the kind of symbolism you usually only see in fiction.”

“Suppose it explains why he’s not climbing any of them,” The Iron Bull commented.

It was rather unusual for the Inquisitor to go more than a few days without climbing something. Aldaron hadn’t been up a tree since before he was injured, so it really wasn’t all that surprising. More surprising was that he hadn’t attempted it despite the lingering injury. And it was lingering. Dorian had been watching him like a hawk since they left the Exalted Plains. Aldaron insisted that he was fine, but he still favored his uninjured side, he stretched more than usual after a day on horseback, and Dorian had seen him press his hands against the small of his back, wincing, when he thought no one was looking.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask; he wanted to demand that Aldaron let one of the Inquisition’s healers take a look at that wound. There had to be one somewhere in this Maker forsaken forest, he was sure of it.

But he knew Aldaron well enough now to know that the elf would deny any discomfort. He would deny and then he would get angry if Dorian pressed the subject. Either the pain would go away, or sometime in the next few days or weeks or months it would become unbearable and the Inquisitor would be forced to address it one way or another. Dorian was hoping for the former.

The worst of it all was that Aldaron did not allow himself a moment of rest. If they weren’t tromping about the forest killing random strangers and breaking into some Orlesian noble’s summer manor, the Inquisitor was pouring over the reports that came in every day by raven from his advisors. The day’s correspondence was handed over as soon as they walked into camp after a long day of hiking and murder, and Aldaron immediately began reading. He would sit himself off to the side and read until someone brought him dinner, then he would read while he ate, and he scribbled messages and orders in return late into the night, sometimes writing the same letter three times before he was certain his words would be understood.

Dorian was familiar with Aldaron’s workaholic tendencies, and he knew the Inquisitor was trying to coordinate the movements of two separate armies, not to mention the scouting parties. He was the Inquisitor; he couldn’t exactly not give orders to his army while it was on the move. But that didn’t make it any easier when he was trying to sleep and Aldaron was sitting up in their tent poring over reports by candlelight.

Aldaron’s insomnia had never completely gone away, so Dorian was used to falling asleep before him, but most of the time Aldaron at least made an effort to sleep at a reasonable time.

“Amatus… Go to sleep,” Dorian mumbled in complaint. It had to be midnight and the elf was still sitting there with a single candle. The light and the sound of shuffling papers kept waking Dorian up – usually a sign that he’d fallen asleep in the library again.

“I need to finish this,” Aldaron replied without looking up from whatever he was writing. “Am I keeping you up? I can go outside.”

“No, you need to sleep,” Dorian sighed. “The ravens can’t go out until the morning anyway.”

“And they need to go out first thing so they can get to Cullen,” Aldaron said.

This was an unwinnable argument. The birds could wait a couple hours, but Aldaron would never admit that. With a flick of his wrist Dorian snuffed out the candle, ignored Aldaron’s annoyed scoff, and grabbed his lover by the back of his shirt, physically dragging him down to the bedroll. As he fell awkwardly to the ground at Dorian’s side the elf let out a yelp of pain. Dorian released him immediately, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” he asked in alarm.

Aldaron hissed softly and shifted to a less awkward position. Lying flat on his back he pressed a hand to his stomach. The left side, just above his hip. Where he’d been stabbed. “I’m just… still a little stiff.”

This time Dorian did not buy it for a second. “You’ve been stiff for a week.” Sitting up, he pulled Aldaron’s hand away from his side and pushed up the elf’s shirt. Aldaron protested indignantly but was ignored as Dorian flicked the candle back to life so he could take a look at the injury. Unfortunately - although expectedly - there was nothing to see. The only thing on Aldaron’s stomach was a scar, a line of still-pink flesh to mark what had been a gaping wound.

“See?” the elf said sternly, and slapped Dorian’s hands away, “It’s fine. Just sore.”

“You said it was from inactivity,” Dorian accused. “That you just needed exercise. What have we been doing the past several days if not exercise?”

Aldaron pursed his lips, “It’s just a little sore. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Dorian exclaimed. If he were a better healer he could have caught this earlier. He could have done something about it whether Aldaron liked it or not. But no, this wasn’t his fault. Aldaron should have had a healer look at it ages ago.

“It hasn’t stopped me from doing anything,” Aldaron protested, and rolled away from Dorian before sitting up again. “I can still fight. I’m not going to lie around like an invalid. The Inquisition needs me.”

“And what use will you be to anyone when you collapse?” Dorian demanded. “The Inquisition needs you whole, not handicapped and afraid of moving too quickly because of the pain. Don’t think I haven’t seen you,” he added quickly before Aldaron could deny.

The elf at least had the sense to look ashamed by the accusation. “There’s still not time to sit around and recover,” he said stubbornly.

That was probably the closest he would ever come to admitting that anything was wrong. Dorian would take it. “You could at least have a healer look at it,” he said, voice softening somewhat.

Aldaron sighed. His shoulders slumped in defeat, he hung his head and raked a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he mumbled. “In the morning.”

“Of course in the morning,” Dorian scoffed. “You need to sleep, I was entirely serious about that.”

“I have to finish these reports,” Aldaron protested, but it was much weaker than before.

“They will still be there in the morning, amatus,” Dorian reminded him gently. “The world won’t end if you take a break for a few hours.” The elf did not say anything, but looked hesitantly at the pile of parchment on the ground. “You won’t be any use to anyone if you work yourself to exhaustion. Come here, amatus.” He held out an arm and watched as Aldaron tore his gaze away from the reports before moving into Dorian’s arms. The man smiled, feeling victorious as he pulled Aldaron down onto the bedroll beside him. “Besides, you’re not allowed to be the Inquisitor at night, you know that.”

Aldaron’s shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter. Another victory. “Of course. I forgot.”

Dorian pulled a blanket up over them and snuffed out the candle again. “I’ll forgive you this time,” he murmured. “If you go to sleep.”

“I am,” Aldaron mumbled. He shifted to get comfortable and lay his head on Dorian’s shoulder. The man stayed awake until he heard his lover’s breathing turn slow and even. Only then did he close his eyes once more and allow himself to fall back to sleep.

 

* * *

In the morning Aldaron rushed to finish up the orders he needed to send while eating breakfast. His handwriting was even worse than usual, and he hoped Josephine wouldn’t see any of this because she would be so disappointed. The whole time Dorian watched him impatiently, ensuring that Aldaron didn’t even think about avoiding the healer that morning. So when his papers were handed over to the scouts to be sent off by raven Aldaron knew there was no avoiding it any longer. Feeling like a shamed child, he approached the camp healer and the pair ducked into a tent for privacy.

“What’s the prognosis?” Dorian asked as soon as Aldaron stepped out of the tent after the healer.

The healer was a very nice woman. One of the mages recruited from Redcliffe posted here to keep on eye on the scouts. Perhaps not the best healer the Inquisition had to offer, but more than capable. She had been in the Inquisitor’s tent for less than an hour, poking and prodding and only scolding him a little bit for not taking better care of himself. At Dorian’s question she gave Aldaron an uncertain look, silently asking if she was allowed to say anything. Aldaron just nodded. She would likely explain better than he could anyway. “He has a fair amount of internal scarring. Certainly nothing life threatening, but if left untended the pain will remain and the stiffness may get worse.”

“It can be treated, then?” Dorian asked.

“Yes, and quite easily,” the healer replied. “Though it would not be a problem at all if he had a healer examine him regularly while the injury was healing.” Her gaze slid toward the Inquisitor and he looked up at the sky. “A wound like that generally cannot be healed fully with only one treatment. I’ve broken up some of the scar tissue, and his body should begin repairing itself now. I’d recommend seeing a healer every few days to ensure it’s healing properly.”

“I’ll make certain that he does,” Dorian promised. Aldaron wasn’t looking at him but he could hear the accusation in Dorian’s voice.

“Very well,” the healer replied, some confusion in her voice. Perhaps she didn’t understand how serious Dorian was. There was no doubt in Aldaron’s mind that the man would hound him mercilessly if he went more than a day without seeing a healer again. “Inquisitor,” the title finally forced Aldaron to look at her again. Thankfully the woman only offered a small bow before turning to leave.

“Thank you,” Aldaron said after her. And then he was left alone with Dorian. The mage’s gaze was critical. Aldaron could not meet his eyes. “Is this where you say ‘I told you so’?” he asked.

“Apparently I don’t need to,” the man replied dryly.

Aldaron shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He did not like fighting with Dorian, and it seemed like every time it happened it was his fault. And he did know this was his fault. Dorian was right – Dorian was always right – he should have seen a healer sooner. He really had thought it was nothing in the beginning. And maybe a part of him had wanted the pain because it was something to feel other than grief and rage. He was lucky the problem wasn’t anything serious. “I’m sorry,” he eventually managed to say.

Dorian sighed, “At least you’re not at risk of dropping dead on the spot,” he said. “But you need to take better care of yourself.”

Aldaron just nodded mutely. There was nothing he could say, no argument to defend his actions. It was just so much easier to pretend nothing was wrong and hope all of his problems went away on their own. And there was too much else on his mind, so much that needed his attention. There was no time for the Inquisitor to take a break; not to mourn his family and not to recover from an injury.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked softly.

The man had been asking the same question at least once a day since they’d left the Dalish camp nearly a week ago. Aldaron never had a clear answer for him because he was never sure if Dorian was asking about his injury or his emotions. Either way the true answer wasn’t something he wanted to give.

“I’m not talking about your injury this time. You’ve been very quiet the past few days,” Dorian continued when Aldaron gave no answer. “I’m rather ashamed it took me so long to figure out why.”

So it was time to talk about that, then. He supposed if they were going to have a heart-to-heart about everything wrong in his life it might as well be now. Aldaron shrugged with one shoulder. He wasn’t upset that Dorian had taken so long to figure out why this forest bothered him. He was, sadly, used to it. Humans didn’t stop to think about elves. Dorian was getting better, but he still had a long ways to go. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

“That can be dangerous,” Dorian commented. “What about?”

“My clan,” Aldaron answered softly. Dorian did not have any smart comments to say about that, it seemed. Aldaron wasn’t certain he wanted to talk about this, but maybe it would help. “I thought… Somehow that Keeper Hawen’s clan could replace them. But they can’t. Of course they can’t. They aren’t the same at all.”

“How do you mean?” Dorian asked.

Aldaron frowned for a moment as he tried to decide how best to explain it to someone who knew next to nothing about his people. “There’s very little communication between clans; because we move around so much and because larger groups draw too much attention. So they’re all very different. We have the same gods, we tell the same stories. To an outsider we probably do all look the same. But… This clan builds their aravels differently because the terrain is different where they live, and that clan makes their clothes differently because of their resources or the weather. One Keeper favors tales of Ghilan’nain and the clan reveres her most, another Keeper prays most often to Andruil.” And judging by the look on his face, he’d lost Dorian. “The clans are different because of where they live and the people in them. Do you see?”

“I think so,” the man said thoughtfully. “Human cities are much the same way. If you go from Minrathous to Qarinus, for example, you’re still in the same country, the people still speak the same language, but the atmosphere is different.”

“Yes, like that,” Aldaron nodded. He’d been to only a few human cities, but even he could see the difference between Val Royeaux and Halamshiral.

“So you were unhappy because that clan was different from yours?” Dorian asked.

“Not unhappy,” Aldaron was quick to say. “But… disappointed, maybe. And it forced me to reconsider some things. Clan Lavellan was my family and I loved them. No one could ever replace them, but I don’t think I want that anyway. They’re gone, but… I still have people that I care about. I still have the Inquisition… I still have you,” he turned toward Dorian and offered the man a small, crooked smile. “You’re my clan now; all of you.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. He was silent for so long that Aldaron began to worry that he’d said something wrong. He’d meant it as a compliment, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had a cultural misunderstanding. Then finally Dorian had a reply. “Varric is going to be furious he missed such a beautiful speech and now can’t use it in the book we all know he’s going to write about you.”

Aldaron felt his ears go red and he shoved Dorian’s shoulder nearly hard enough to send the man to the ground. “We were having a moment, and you’ve ruined it,” he complained, but he was smiling.

Dorian laughed aloud as he righted himself, “I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “That was unworthy of me. However, it… means quite a lot that you would think so highly of me – of any of us,” he continued seriously.

“Is that so surprising?” Aldaron asked. He thought his feelings for Dorian, at least, were obvious by now even if he did not speak them aloud.

“Perhaps not,” Dorian admitted, “But I’m unused to such syrupy declarations. I confess I don’t quite know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Aldaron murmured. It was enough that Dorian knew, he didn’t have to return the sentiment.

“I can’t pretend to fully understand how much your clan meant to you,” Dorian replied carefully, “Quite a lot, clearly, but… I’ve never had a terribly good relationship with my family, as you know.”

“I know,” Aldaron sighed.

“And if I learned anything from our short stay with that other clan, it’s that I know absolutely nothing about your culture,” Dorian added. “You don’t talk much about… elf things.”

“Elf things,” Aldaron repeated dryly. All the vocabulary in that pretty head and that was the best he could come up with?

Dorian favored him with an equally deadpan expression. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of tact on the subject. My chief sources of information on the subject are you and Solas, and he’s not terribly forthcoming unless you want a lecture on why Arlathan was the greatest civilization to ever grace the world. I have at least learned that anything written about the Dalish in a book is at best exaggerated and at worst an outright fabrication. I’m working under the assumption that everything I learned before meeting you is entirely false.”

“Well,” Aldaron commented, “That’s progress, I suppose. Why the sudden interest?” Not that he minded. Actually, he was happy that Dorian was showing an interest in his culture. And happy that he’d asked instead of relying on the untrustworthy information in books.

“Why shouldn’t I be interested?” Dorian asked in return. “I happen to be sleeping with an elf, and yet I realized I know very little about his culture.”

That was hardly surprising. Aldaron didn’t talk about his people or his culture very often. But no one else seemed at all interested. Even Solas did not care for the Dalish. He was so used to being constantly surrounded by human culture and smothered by Chantry teachings. His beliefs were written on his face (quite literally) clear as day, and yet some people still acted surprised when he expressed them. He was glad that Dorian was interested, and he would eagerly tell the man everything he could. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with this,” Dorian said, brushing a thumb along the dark lines inked on Aldaron’s cheeks. “Why do you have a tree tattooed on your face? I assume it’s not just because you love them so much.”

“It’s not a tree,” Aldaron protested.

“Amatus, have you ever looked in a mirror?” Dorian said, lips quirking in amusement. “It’s a tree.”

It was a tree, Aldaron was forced to admit. But it wasn’t just a tree. “It’s… complicated.” How did he even begin explaining the vallaslin? There was so much meaning behind what humans often considered simple tattoos. Did he explain only that he had symbols representing Mythal marking his face, or try to explain the significance of vallaslin entirely? How much did Dorian need to know? How much did he want to know?

“Well, we have a long day of travel ahead of us,” Dorian hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps that will be enough time to explain it?”

“You want me to talk to you about tattoos all day?” Aldaron asked incredulously.

“If necessary,” Dorian replied. “I can think of many worse conversation topics.”

Aldaron couldn’t help being surprised. Dorian actually wanted to know about his people. Humans were never interested in learning about the Dalish unless to talk about how savage and uncivilized they were. Even Dorian hadn’t shown more than a passing curiosity before now. Had spending time with a clan changed that? Had Aldaron changed that? “It probably won’t take all day,” he said eventually.

“Oh good,” Dorian chuckled, “I was afraid I might get bored.”

Aldaron rolled his eyes, “The others are probably waiting for us.”

“That’s the glory of being in charge, isn’t it? Everyone has to wait on you,” Dorian grinned, but turned and began walking toward the horses, where Varric and Bull were indeed waiting for them. They were leaving the Emerald Graves. He would miss this place. Maybe someday, when he was not tasked with saving the world, he could come back here. Aldaron took one last moment to look around the camp and up at the canopy far overhead, and then he followed after Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for not updating last week. Real life showed up and bit me in the ass. I discussed it briefly on tumblr. To make up for it, I slapped together a playlist of some of the music that inspires this fic. It can be found on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/erandir/nobody-s-herald), with a tracklisting post on [tumblr.](http://erandir.tumblr.com/post/124408859017/as-apology-for-not-updating-last-weekend-i-made-a)


	24. Temple

When the Inquisitor’s party rode into the war camp the army had already been there for a full day - scouts longer than that – hounding Corypheus’ forces to prevent the creature from reaching his goal. Pulling his mount to a stop, Aldaron let his gaze sweep over the camp, taking in the rows of tents squeezed between trees on any level ground. Although he’d been receiving as much information as was possible to send by raven in the past several days, it was impossible to fully understand what was happening without seeing it himself. He could already hear fighting in the distance. “Bull,” the Inquisitor ordered without taking his eyes off the bustling camp. “Find the rest of the Chargers, I want you with them; wherever the Commander needs you.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” the mercenary agreed easily and peeled off to go find the rest of his crew. Aldaron barely spared him a glance.

“Varric,” the Inquisitor continued. The dwarf had been off his mount the moment they stopped, always happier on solid ground even if he put up with riding for the sake of not being left behind. “See if you can find Cassandra or Solas and send them my way.”

“My two favorite people,” Varric groused good-naturedly. He ducked a small mock bow to the Inquisitor before heading off into the camp.

“Dorian,” Aldaron went on, but he never got a chance to finish the thought.

“Don’t even think about leaving me behind, amatus,” the man said with a frown, “I won’t have it.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Aldaron’s lips, the faintest break in his professional façade before he managed to suppress it. As though he would consider sending Dorian from his side. The very idea was laughable. “I was going to say: we should probably restock on potions before we head into the woods. Do you think you could handle that while I find out the situation?”

“Ah,” Dorian replied, and maybe even looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, I think I can find an apothecary or a healer in all this mess.” He dismounted his horse and handed the reigns over to a waiting soldier.

Aldaron dug a few empty bottles from his saddlebag and handed them down to Dorian. “Try not to take too long. There’s a war on.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Dorian chuckled as he took the bottles. “You’ll hardly notice I was gone,” he promised before heading off between the tents on his errand.

As Aldaron swung down from his mount at long last a soldier in Inquisition regalia approached and hailed him. “Report,” the Inquisitor snapped curtly. “How goes the battle, captain?” He handed his hart off to another waiting soldier and headed off into the camp proper, trusting the captain to follow him. It was so easy now to switch into the persona of a confident and competent leader, to be The Inquisitor that the world wanted. So easy that sometimes he wondered if it was still just an act.

“The red templars fall beneath our blades, Your Worship,” the Captain reported, easily falling into step beside the Inquisitor. “Commander Cullen says they’re nearly finished.” So it seemed he had missed most of the fighting, but he couldn’t really complain. “Our scouts saw Corypheus traveling toward and elven ruin to the north. We can clear you a path through his armies.”

Aldaron nodded in understanding. None of that was surprising. In fact it was exactly what they’d been expecting. “Do only what you must,” he said. “We don’t need to take down the entire army here, we only need to stop him from reaching that temple.”

“We shall not flinch, Your Worship! Not a one of us,” she clapped a hand to her heart in salute and gave the Inquisitor a short bow. “Andraste guide you.”

Aldaron returned the bow slightly and watched the soldier head back to her duties. He kept thinking a thousand things at once. Everything that might be awaiting him in the woods. Templars, battles, potentially Corypheus himself. And elven ruins untouched by human hands. He felt a strange mixture of apprehension, terror, and excitement.

“I wonder,” a voice pulled Aldaron out of his thoughts and he turned to see Morrigan, the advisor Empress Celene had foisted upon him. He didn’t like her much, or trust her. Something about her manner of speech made him feel like she was only ever said half of what she meant. “Is it Andraste your soldiers invoke during battle, or does a more immediate name come to their lips?”

She meant him. Aldaron frowned. He was well aware how many people considered him some sort of prophet, but that didn’t make it true. And he didn’t like to be reminded of it. “Get to the point. We’re in the middle of a war, Morrigan. Time is short.” Perhaps he was a bit more curt than was necessary, but this wasn’t the time to be talking in circles.

“If your scouts report accurately, I believe these ruins to be the Temple of Mythal,” the woman continued. Aldaron was suddenly much more interested. “A place of worship out of elven legend. If Corypheus seeks it, then the eluvian he covets lies within.”

A temple of Mythal. Eagerness welled up inside him, completely out of place for the situation. He wasn’t here to sate his own curiosity. On the other hand, if there was a chance to learn anything from these ruins he would leap upon it. Behind him an explosion went off in the distant forest, pulling his attention back to the present once more.

“Let us hope we reach this temple _before_ the entire forest is reduced to ash,” Morrigan muttered, and for once Aldaron agreed with her.

Turning away from the witch, Aldaron cast his gaze over the camp again. Although he had just arrived, he wanted to leave again soon. There was no time to waste. “Solas,” he called out, spotting the elven mage heading toward them and going to meet him. “Have you heard the scouting reports? Morrigan believes Corypheus is heading toward a temple of Mythal.”

“I have,” Solas confirmed. “And I would have to agree with her. The ruins are large. This would have been a place of great importance to the ancient elves.”

All the more reason to get there before Corypheus could tear it to pieces in search of the eluvian. “Then we need to get moving,” the Inquisitor said. Even though he had just been on the road for several days, even though the wound on his side still twinged from time to time, he was eager to press on. He only had to wait for Dorian to get back, and for Cassandra to appear. He was hesitant to bring someone of Cassandra’s devout faith to an elven temple, but if they were fighting through an army of templars to get there he would need her skills and expertise.

They did not wait long. Cassandra appeared shortly and Dorian returned only a moment later, handing the Inquisitor a fresh batch of potions. Aldaron explained the situation to them briefly as he slid the little bottles into the pouches on his belt and checked his daggers once out of habit before they headed into the woods and into battle.

 

* * *

The only other major battle Aldaron had ever been in was the siege of Adamant Fortress. That had been all smoke and confusion, too many people in too small a space. This was very different. Here the fighting was spread out far and wide among the trees; small skirmishes that were no less chaotic than any battle but left more time to breath. He hated fighting templars, though. He hated fighting anyone in heavy armor. It was awkward, harder to get a knife into the seams at the neck or shoulder or knees. And all that red lyrium made him afraid to get too close, afraid to touch.

Taking a swipe at the back of a knee, Aldaron ducked under the arm of a templar nearly twice his size and suddenly came face to face with an elf. He was so startled that for a moment he froze. The split second of confusion almost earned him a knife in the ribs, but he managed to dodge out of the way just in time. The elf practically snarled at him, vallaslin twisting on his face, and aimed another strike at Aldaron’s vitals. The Inquisitor moved on instinct, blocking the blow with his own blades and leaping back out of reach of the strange elf. With his quarry now aware of him, the other elf leapt back as well, then turned and fled into the trees.

Aldaron had a thousand questions swirling in his mind, but no time to consider any of them as he was pulled back into the chaos of battle. When the skirmish was ended and his enemies lay dead or dying on the ground Aldaron spotted among them an elf in armor like the one that had attacked him. Unable to contain his curiosity, he walked over and looked down at the body. The armor was finely crafted, but unlike any Aldaron had seen on elves or humans. “Who are these elves?” he asked, crouching to examine the corpse more closely. Both this one and the one that had attacked him bore vallaslin, but everything else about them was foreign. “They don’t look Dalish, and I’ve never heard of any clans this far into the wilds.”

“It seems this Temple of Mythal is not deserted after all,” Solas commented. Could there be elves out here? A clan so isolated and so well hidden that all others had forgotten about them?

“Perhaps these creatures are the reason so few return from the Arbor Wilds,” Morrigan mused.

Aldaron felt a frown pull at his lips. ‘Creatures’ she called them. Like animals.  He stood up again abruptly, “We need to keep moving.” They still had a mission, and perhaps at the temple they would find some answers about these strange elves.

Following the sounds of battle lead them further into the woods, passing by both Inquisition and Orlesian troops engaged with the red templars and even more of those elves. Who were they? And why were they attacking? It didn’t escape his notice that they favored no side, attacking both templar and Inquisition soldiers without hesitation. But why? Any Dalish clan Aldaron had ever known would have avoided a battle of this size, would have retreated further into the woods and hidden until the humans were gone. Clearly these were no Dalish elves, but then who were they?

The path they followed through the woods – one cut by battle rather than by nature – ended at a wide clearing, and there through the trees Aldaron first set eyes on the temple. A massive façade emerging from the foliage, half overgrown but still easily visible and still impressive.

Here they found Cullen with a party of soldiers, holding the front lines against any templars that managed to make it this far. Corypheus was already in the temple, he reported. Aldaron’s heart thundered in his chest and he clenched his teeth as he fought to stay calm. He ordered Cullen to keep holding the line, to keep anyone from following them in, and headed with trepidation toward the temple.

He raced down the corridor and out into the open once more, then skidded to a stop, fear striking through him as he set eyes on the scene before him. The corridor had led them out onto a dais, and in the courtyard below stood Corypheus, surrounded by his templars and a handful of Grey Wardens. For a moment Aldaron stood frozen, until he felt a hand on his shoulder, shoving him down below the dais’ railing for the little cover it would provide. Aldaron had not laid eyes on Corypheus since the attack on Haven, and seeing the twisted creature again now brought back the same terror he’d felt then.

Before the darkspawn and his forces stood more of those elves. They stood defensive on a bridge that lead toward what must be the main temple. When they spoke Aldaron could barely make out the words, and watched with mounting horror as Corypheus advanced upon them. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows,” the creature spoke.

Well of Sorrows? Aldaron had never heard of such a thing, and cast a confused glance toward Morrigan, who only shrugged in response. Why was he not surprised.

Below, Corypheus continued to advance. Two statues on either side of the bridge began to glow with some ancient magic Aldaron could not begin to fathom. The elves did not run, even as Corypheus reached out for them. Then the magic in those statues exploded in a shockwave so powerful Aldaron was nearly knocked off his feet. When he looked again there was nothing where Corypheus had stood, only black scorch marks on the stones.

Dead.

After so much time and effort, after everything Aldaron had been through, it was so anticlimactic. So disappointing. And yet Corypheus’ soldiers ran on toward the temple as though their leader, their would-be god, had not just been killed before their very eyes. Something was wrong. Cautiously Aldaron rose to his feet. He cast a look at his companions, who all looked as stunned and confused as he felt. They made their way slowly down toward the bridge, stepping over the bodies of fallen templars and elves. All those well enough had fled across the bridge, but one Grey Warden remained. Injured in the blast, Aldaron assumed until the man began to gag and twitch, his flesh to tear and stretch as black ichor poured from his mouth and then—

“It cannot be,” Morrigan breathed in horror.

Aldaron could barely comprehend what he was seeing, but every instinct in his body was screaming at him to run and he did not have the strength of will to argue. “Across the bridge. Now!” It was the only thing he could think of, to flee into the temple where maybe they might be safe for a time, where they could hide until they came up with a plan.

How do you kill something that cannot die?

He fled across the bridge along with the others as fast as his legs would carry him, and then straining faster as he heard the unmistakable roar of a dragon not far behind. The doors to the temple were already halfway closed when he slipped through them, but they were massive and heavy. Aldaron pressed his shoulder against one, leaned his entire rather insignificant bodyweight against it and pushed with all his might until the doors slammed closed just in time to block the searing heat of dragon fire. Then he stumbled back, mind still struggling to understand what had happened, tripped over his own feet and sat down heavily on the floor.

“Inquisitor!” he heard Cassandra call out in alarm, and Dorian was suddenly by his side.

“I’m alright,” he assured them quickly, still breathing heavily from their sprint across the bridge and the struggle to get that door closed in time. He just needed a moment to collect himself, to push down the fear and let the adrenaline wear off. “I just… How did he…? We saw him die.”

“And his essence passes on to any blighted creature, darkspawn or Grey Warden,” Morrigan explained. How did she seem so calm even after all that?

“Then Corypheus can’t really die,” Dorian breathed. He sounded simultaneously fascinated and terrified. Of course he would be fascinated by magic like that, but Aldaron couldn’t bring himself to be impressed.

“Tis strange,” Morrigan mused, “Archdemons posses the same ability, and yet Grey Wardens are able to slay them. And yet Corypheus they locked away. Perhaps they knew he could do this… but not how.”

Not a terribly comforting thought. But there had to be some way to kill him, didn’t there? Nothing could be truly immortal, could it? Aldaron swallowed down his panic as his breathing returned to normal. “We’ll find a way to stop him once we’re done here,” the Inquisitor said, pushing himself back to his feet once more.

“Indeed,” Morrigan agreed, “Let us proceed before Corypheus interferes.”

Who knew how long that door would hold. They needed to stop Corypheus’ forces from reaching the eluvian. Although now Aldaron was not certain that was what the darkspawn was after in the first place.

“You said Corypheus wanted an eluvian, but he mentioned a ‘Well of Sorrows’. Which is right?” Cassandra asked before Aldaron had a chance to voice the question himself.

Morrigan seemed to hesitate. “I… am uncertain of what he referred to,” the witch admitted after a long pause.

Of course she didn’t. For all her claimed expertise on elven history and magic, she had no idea what she was talking about. Should he have ever expected better from a _shemlen_? They always presumed to know more than they could. “You were guessing,” Aldaron accused. “Corypheus might not be after this eluvian. It might not even be here.” And now they had no idea what they were searching for.

“Yes, I was wrong! Does that please you?” The woman snapped back.

It did. Seeing a human as arrogant as her proved wrong pleased him more than he was willing to admit. With a scoff Aldaron turned away. “Let’s find this well before Corypheus’ people do,” he said. They were already at a disadvantage, they couldn’t waste any more time arguing.

The temple’s entrance opened onto a wide courtyard. It was beautiful, Aldaron thought. The structure crumbling with time, but overgrown by the forest that surrounded it. The grasses that grew up between the cracks in the floor and the vines that twined across ancient mosaics made the place even more stunning than any palace or cathedral Aldaron had seen. At the far side of the courtyard wide stairs led up to a door flanked by two massive statues, statues that Aldaron recognized immediately. Mythal. This was her temple after all. He wished he could spend days or weeks or months here, exploring every dark corner and finding every secret this temple had to give. But there was not time for that, they were on a mission.

In the center of the courtyard stood a raised platform. Aldaron knew, logically, that they should head straight into the temple, where no doubt the templars were already tearing the place to pieces. And yet he could not help himself as his curiosity drew him closer. He had seen elven ruins before, plenty of them, but he had never seen any so large and so untouched. There were stairs on one side of the platform, and on the altar in the center he could see writing. Curious, he drew closer. As soon as he set foot on the platform the tiles beneath his feet began to glow. It startled him and froze him in place. This was magic, clearly, but was it safe?

“It appears the temple’s magicks are still strong,” Morrigan spoke as she stepped up beside him. She walked onto the glowing tiles with no fear, so Aldaron assumed it was safe.

Following the witch toward the altar, he leaned forward to try and see the writing through the vines that had grown over it. As expected, it was in elven. “Ancient elven. I can’t make out much,” he observed, not about to admit that he couldn’t read the language of his people. But these days that knowledge was relegated to Keepers and their Firsts. There was no need for anyone else to read elvhen.

“ ‘Atish’all Vir Abelasan’,” Solas read from behind him. He had approached the platform as well, but notably did not set foot on the glowing tiles. “It means ‘Enter the path of the Well of Sorrows’.”

That was promising. They were definitely on the right track, then. And perhaps this altar could tell them something more about this Well. Aldaron looked between Solas and Morrigan hopefully. Surely between the two of them they could translate the inscription. But Aldaron was disappointed.

“There is something about knowledge,” Morrigan said thoughtfully, leaning forward to look closer at the words, “Respectful or pure. Shiven, shivennen…” she mumbled to herself and paused, frowning. “Tis all I can translate. That it mentions the Well is a good omen.”

Of course she couldn’t read it. Once more, Morrigan proved to be less knowledgeable about elves than she had claimed, and more useless in this endeavor. He was no longer surprised. “Vague translations of ‘knowledge’ and ‘sorrow’ don’t fill me with confidence,” he muttered.

Morrigan clearly did not like being doubted, and if the narrowing of her eyes was any indication she knew full well that Aldaron did not trust in her knowledge. So she was quick to try and cover up her past shortfalls with conjecture. “Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here. Following their path may aid entry.”

From behind him he heard Cassandra complain, “Perform a ritual to appease elven gods? Long-dead or no, I don’t like it.”

The path here was short. It would take only a moment. What was the harm in performing one simple ritual? Cassandra didn’t have to do anything, Aldaron would, and he did. He saw the path laid before him clear as day and stepped forward without hesitation. Below his feet the tiles lit up with latent magic, tracking his progress until he reached the stairs once more and the entire platform glowed. Then there was an unmistakable swell of magic, surging across the courtyard and toward the closed door at the other side, which glowed in response and then swung open. For a moment Aldaron could only stare, surprised that it had worked, and then he was moving again, past his companions and up the stairs to the door at a near run. He heard someone shout at him to slow down, to be more cautious, but he did not listen. The door was open only a fraction and he pushed it further while the others caught up

They emerged into the inner part of the temple just in time for an explosion to rock the structure, sending dust down from ancient rafters. Before them the red templars – and Samson himself, Aldaron suddenly recognized Corypheus’ general – had blown a massive hole in the floor of the temple. And before he could even think about racing forward to stop them, the soldiers had disappeared down into the darkness below.

“We might catch them,” Aldaron exclaimed, and raced forward.

However, before he could reach the edge Morrigan leapt in front of him and held out an arm. “Hold a moment. While they rush ahead, this leads to our true destination,” she said, gesturing to another door not unlike the last. “We should walk the petitioner’s path, as before.”

“An army fights and dies for us,” Cassandra protested, “The longer we tarry, the more soldiers we loose outside. Let’s jump down and be done with this place.”

“Just a thought,” Dorian interjected, “Maybe rushing through this place like a mad bull isn’t the best plan?”

“In this case, I must agree with the witch,” Solas added. “This is ancient ground, deserving of our respect.”

“You see the urgency,” Morrigan spoke again. “We cannot find the Well of Sorrows unprepared.”

If everyone would give him a moment to speak perhaps he would have something to say about it, but Morrigan’s rush made him feel unsettled. “You seem very eager to reach our destination.”

“Are we not all eager to stop Corypheus from achieving his mad plan?” the woman asked in reply.

If that was all it was, then she should be insisting they follow Samson and the templars immediately, not stay and perform more rituals. “It sounds like what you want is that Well.” She made no secret that she’d once sought the eluvian here herself. She seemed to covet ancient artifacts as much as Corypheus himself, and even if her intentions were good that still put Aldaron ill at ease. The eluvian she possessed she had not returned to the elves where it belonged, but selfishly kept it hidden for only her use.

The witch sighed in exasperation, then gestured for the Inquisitor to follow her as she stepped away from their other companions. Aldaron hesitated a moment before following her. “Corypheus would squander the power of the Well,” she said when they were out of earshot, “I would have it restored.”

“You barely know what the Well of Sorrows is, but you want to restore it?” Aldaron asked in confusion.

“Is Thedas so full of wonders that we should leave them to die one by one?” Morrigan asked. “Mankind blunders though the world, crushing what it does not understand: elves, dragons, magic… The list is endless. We must stem the tide or be left with nothing but the mundane, this I know to be true.” A fine sentiment, if protection and restoration were in fact her only goals. “I read more in the first chamber than I revealed,” she admitted, “It said a great boon is granted to those who use the Well of Sorrows… But at a great price.”

Of course she’d been keeping things to herself. How very like a _shem_. “What exactly did the altar say about the Well of Sorrows?” he demanded.

“Like most elven writing it was insufferably vague. The term I deciphered was ‘halam’shivanas’ – ‘the sweet sacrifice of duty’,” the woman explained. “It implies a loss of something personal for duty’s sake. Yet for those who served at this temple, a worthwhile trade.”

“Is your real goal the power inside this Well?” Aldaron asked. If he had to protect this thing from both her and Corypheus he needed to know that now.

“Yes, if that is the only way to preserve it!” Morrigan said, as though that make it acceptable. More humans stealing the relics of his people and acting like it was their right. “My priority is your cause, but if the opportunity arises to save this Well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

“And gain what?” Aldaron prodded. What power was in the Well? What more was she hiding from him?

“That is what we must discover. The rituals may point the way,” Morrigan replied, and gestured back toward the group.

Aldaron did not trust her motives. Was she truly seeking to preserve the Well, or did she only want the power for herself. At least now he knew what to expect from her, knew that she would try to take the well when they found it. Sparing the witch one last furious glare, Aldaron turned away from her and marched back toward the others. “I’ll be doing the rituals,” he announced. But not because Morrigan said so.

Corypheus’ forces had clearly gotten in without fulfilling the rituals, but they cared nothing for this temple or anything within except the Well of Sorrows. He did not want to follow their example.  Yes, his gods were long-dead or locked away. The elven gods no longer reached out their hands to help the People, but that was never the point of his religion. They were a reminder of the old ways, an ideal to strive toward. An ideal that Aldaron sometimes struggled to remember.

He had told Dorian the stories when he explained his vallaslin. Mythal was the mother of all, the goddess of protection. She offered justice to those who came to her with a pure heart, and punishment to those who were false. She could be harsh, when necessary, but also offered mercy and kindness. Aldaron had always worn her vallaslin with pride, but had not always been able to live out the ideals it represented. There were so many he had failed to protect in the past year. The Divine. Stroud. His clan. So many innocents caught in the path of this war. Mythal could not see him walk this path, just as she could not see the vallaslin on his face, but she had also not seen his failings. He did not revere the elven gods because he desired to impress them, not like the humans and their Maker. But the elves of old had done so here in the days before the Creators disappeared. So perhaps this was where he could finally find some piece of mind. Perhaps this was where he could atone for all his failures – if only in his own mind.

And perhaps it was a waste of time. Perhaps this was not the shortcut that Morrigan hoped. But between this and desecrating sacred ground, he chose this. He spent a long moment staring at the first path, and as before saw clearly which steps to take, but before mounting the platform he stopped, seated himself on the steps, and tugged off his boots. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. “Hold these,” as he rose back to his feet he thrust the boots into Dorian’s arms.

“You can’t be serious,” the man protested, fumbling not to drop them in his surprise. “I’m not going to hold...” But Aldaron had already stepped onto the first tile, watching it light up under his feet. Dorian’s protests (about the mud on the boots, Aldaron expected, or the indignity of being made to hold them) died on his lips. “At least be quick about it!”

Aldaron was. Not as quick as he could have been, probably, but there was no hesitation in his steps as he crossed the tiles and watched it wonder as the magic lit up under his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story quests are hard to write. Don't wanna juts parrot everything you already know, but also have to, to an extent.  
> All stuff about Dalish religion is Aldaron's personal feelings on the matter, not necessarily universally true of all Dalish or even his clan. He's pretty devout, in his own way.
> 
> This is now officially the longest thing I've ever written!


	25. Sorrows

Aldaron walked each of the Paths of Petition without faltering. Though each was longer and more complex than the last he had little hesitation. The route he needed to take was as clear in his mind as if it had been marked out. One by one the platforms lit up with ancient magic, magic that had been waiting for centuries, perhaps, for someone to activate it. And it helped, somehow, to dampen all the lingering guilt for all those who had died because of him. He couldn’t explain why, because ultimately the ritual was meaningless. Mythal was not watching him or waiting to offer forgiveness. Yet as the last tile on the final path lit up and set the whole thing into a steady glow Aldaron did feel better.

“That’s the last one,” he murmured, stepping off the platform carefully.

“Oh good. You can put these back on now,” Dorian said, holding Aldaron’s boots out to him. The elf was actually surprised that he’d held them this long. “If you don’t, I’m leaving them behind.”

“Didn’t you agree that this was a better idea than charging through and tearing the place apart?” Aldaron asked even as he accepted the boots and tugged them back on. As much as he disliked wearing shoes, he had to admit they were useful. He didn’t want to fight heavily armored templars barefoot.

“That was before I realized it involved you walking about barefoot on ancient magical puzzles,” Dorian complained. “What exactly was the point of this exercise?”

“When asking for protection you must go before Mythal with a pure heart and good intentions,” Aldaron explained. After shoving his feet into the boots he kicked the toes lightly against the floor to get comfortable. “If you’re false or accuse someone wrongly she’ll punish you instead. This was a way to prove your worthiness.” At least, that was what he’d gathered from what Morrigan and Solas were able to translate.

“Inquisitor,” Morrigan interrupted, “I believe we will find the final door unlocked now. We should continue without delay.”

Aldaron narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked to her. She had counseled against rushing ahead before, yet now she urged it. It only fueled his suspicions that she was after the Well of Sorrows. Even without fully knowing what it was or the power it wielded she wanted it for herself. Greedy. But Aldaron was eager as well, to find out what it was and to keep it away from grasping, power hungry humans. “Let’s go, then.”

Just as predicted, upon returning to the center of the hall they found the wide door at the far end had swung itself open a fraction, and when Aldaron pushed it the door swung open easily under his hand, admitting them into a wide tiled hall. Immediately Aldaron’s gaze was drawn toward the high platform at the far side, then further up to the vaulted ceiling. This part of the temple looked practically untouched by the ravages of time or looters. The wonder he felt at the sight, however, was quickly overshadowed by a growing sense of dread that brought his attention sharply back to the present. “We’re being watched.”

They appeared as though from nowhere, the strange elves from the forest and the entrance to the temple, with bows drawn and arrows trained unwavering on the Inquisitor and his companions.

“ _Venavis_.” The voice drew Aldaron’s attention immediately. There on that high platform stood another of the elves, his armor slightly different from the others. A leader, perhaps? “You are unlike the other invaders,” the elf spoke thoughtfully. “You have the features of those who call themselves Elvhen. You bear the mark of magic which is familiar. How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

Slumber? Aldaron had a hundred questions, but now was not the time to ask. Even though he was also elven, these elves clearly saw him as a threat. And Aldaron could not blame them. “They are my enemies, as well as yours,” he said, nearly begged.

The elf looked down on them and seemed to consider the words for a moment before speaking again. “I am called Abelas. We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion. I know what you seek. Like all who have come before you, you wish to drink from the _vir’abelasan_.”

“ ‘The Place of the Way of Sorrows.’ He speaks of the Well,” Morrigan murmured to him, as though Aldaron did not understand his own mother tongue.

If Aldaron had a hundred questions before now he had a thousand. Tasked to guard this place? Tasked by whom? What did he mean they woke to fight? He couldn’t possibly mean… That was impossible. Instead he asked “What is the _vir’abelasan_ , exactly?”

“It is a path, one walked only by those who toiled in Mythal’s favor,” Abelas explained, though it did not explain much. “More than that you need not know.”

 Frustratingly vague, as all elven legend tended to be. But some pieces were starting to come together in Aldaron’s head. Still one question nagged at him, because the way that Abelas spoke made it sound as though he knew more than legends. The ancient elves had been immortal, the stories said, but those who grew weary of life would enter an endless sleep. Was it possible these Sentinels had been in such a state until the war on their doorstep disturbed them? “So…” He shouldn’t be asking, really, but he had to know. “You’re elves from ancient times? From before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?”

“The _shemlen_ did not destroy Arlathan,” Abelas stated.

Aldaron’s mouth fell open in surprise. It answered the question, certainly, but raised a hundred more in its place. But before Aldaron could make his mouth work to ask for clarification, Dorian blurted out “Wait… that’s not right. What are you saying? Are you saying there wasn’t a war?”

“A ‘war’ of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes,” Abelas mocked in reply.

The answer stunned Dorian back into silence, and Aldaron could see the conflicting emotions running across his face. Aldaron himself was not certain what to think. The whole world accepted that history as truth, could it possibly be wrong? And if they were wrong about that, what else was wrong? There was so much they didn’t know. So much they could only guess at. “Our people have lost everything,” Aldaron beseeched, “They need you. They could learn from you.”

“ ‘Our’ people?” Abelas sneered, “The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are not my people.”

The words felt like a knife in his heart. Solas had said much the same thing when they first met and it had hurt just as much then. The Dalish were not perfect, but they were trying. Anyone who could help – Solas, Abelas, any of these Sentinels – they all looked at the Dalish and their struggles and they mocked, they scorned. They never even considered sharing their knowledge.

“You have invaded this sanctum as readily as the _shemlen_ ,” Abelas accused.

Another knife in the wound, because it wasn’t true. Aldaron had tried. He knew this place’s importance. He’d walked the paths, he knew what they meant. He was trying, damn it. Why wouldn’t they see that? “We knew this place was sacred. We respected it as best we could,” Aldaron protested; defensive, pained, but it was too much to keep inside.

For a long moment the Sentinel stared down at them, and Aldaron was barely able to hold a straight face. He needed, desperately, some sort of acknowledgement or acceptance. He was a child all over again, trying to make his elders proud. After what felt to Aldaron like an eternity, Abelas spoke again. “I believe you.” Aldaron released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Trespassers you are, but you have followed rites of petition. You have shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done you will be permitted to depart… and never return.”

Any happiness or relief that Aldaron had felt in that brief moment were gone in an instant. Never return? But there was so much here he wanted to see. So many questions he wanted to ask of these elves. There was so much his people could learn from this place and it was being denied because Aldaron wasn’t good enough. Even though he wore the same vallaslin as Abelas, even though he had completed all the rites, he had done everything possible and still he was not good enough. Not Elvhen enough.

What more could he do, though? They were not here to satisfy his curiosity. He had a mission, an important one, and he should not get distracted by his own selfish desires. “I accept your offer,” he said, solemn but accepting. What other option was there?

“You will be guided to those you seek,” Abelas acknowledged, “As for the _vir’abelasan_ … it shall not be despoiled, even if I have to destroy it myself.”

Before Aldaron even had time to process the words the Sentinel had turned to leave. At his side Morrigan cried out in dismay and raced forward. Aldaron reached out to stop her, but in a puff of smoke and a swirl of magic the woman disappeared and a raven took her place, winging quickly out of his reach and after the departing elf. Cursing himself in frustration, Aldaron was helpless to stop her. He should have seen this coming. The woman greedily wanted the Well for herself, he should have known she would try something like this. There was no following her, however, unless Aldaron suddenly learned to fly as well. No choice then but to follow the guide they had been assigned. All the other Sentinels had disappeared as quickly and silently as they had first arrived, all save a woman in light armor who leaned heavily on a staff as she walked as though injured.

Their guide lead the small group through halls seemingly untouched by time, with gilded statues and glittering mosaics lining the walls. It was a grandeur that other ruins only hinted at. They were on a mission, he had to remind himself. Time was of the essence and they had already wasted enough. Aldaron couldn’t stop himself, though. Each mosaic, each statue they passed drew his attention, slowed his steps until he had to be pulled away. He could have spent days in this place, staring at the walls, but he didn’t even have hours. Occasionally sounds of fighting drifted to them from beyond locked doors, but their guide never faltered. Wherever they were being lead it seemed they were bypassing the bulk of the fighting.

Both too soon and far too late for Aldaron’s liking the elven woman halted before one final door. She spoke in Elvhen, as she had done exclusively. Perhaps she didn’t even understand the common tongue. With a mere gesture the door swung open, then the woman turned away from them, heading back the way they’d come. This must be their destination. The Well of Sorrows.

The red templars had beaten them there.

 

* * *

  
Without the aid of the Sentinels, Aldaron was not certain they would have been able to hold the templars back. Even after a full day of fighting through the jungles and the temple the red templars fought as though not tired at all. The Inquisitor’s party was not so lucky, but at long last the fighting was over as all the templars lay dead or unconscious at their feet. Samson, Corypheus’ own general, was somehow remarkably still alive, captured and trussed up. If possible, Aldaron would see the man transported back to Skyhold. Perhaps they could learn more of Corypheus’ plans.

This was not the end, though. The Well itself still needed protection. Corypheus was still out there, and he would not stop until he had what he sought, even if his entire army lay dead. But what to do about it? They could not even reach the Well.

As though in answer to his question Abelas came running into the courtyard. He spared them hardly a glance as he raced toward the Well, steps appearing by magic below his feet. Aldaron followed, racing after the elf up to the high cliff where the Well resided. Above his head a raven winged past. No, not a raven. In another swirl of magic Morrigan returned to her original form, blocking Abelas’ path to the Well.

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor,” the witch warned, “The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

“So the sanctum is despoiled at last,” Abelas observed. He did not sound angry, as Aldaron would have expected, but resigned.

“You would have destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance,” Morrigan protested.

“To keep it from your grasping fingers!” Abelas snapped, “Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving.”

“Fool! You would let your peoples’ legacy rot in the shadows!” Morrigan argued.

She did not understand. A human never could. Better to let it rot than to see even more of that legacy stolen by humans and used for their own purposes. If it could not be returned to the People, then it was better off lost. “Enough, Morrigan!” the Inquisitor ordered.

The witch turned toward him in surprise, “You cannot honestly—,” she began to protest.

“I said enough!” Aldaron would rather see it destroyed as well, than in her selfish hands.

“The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor,” Morrigan protested even so, “If that power can be used against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

“Do you even know what you ask?” Abelas demanded. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on… through this. All that we knew, all that we were. It would be lost forever.”

Knowledge. That was what Samson had said as well. All the memories of Mythal’s servants. All the things the Dalish could do with that knowledge. It would change everything. Maybe destroying the Well wasn’t the only option. “Look around you. Everything our people were… it’s already gone.” But with the knowledge in the Well it might be restored.

“It is,” Abelas agreed solemnly. “You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny.” He turned his attention solely to Aldaron now. “Is that your desire? To partake of the _vir’abelasan_ as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“Not without your permission,” Aldaron assured. And not just to fight his enemy.

“One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right,” Abelas stated. Then with a sigh he turned away from the Well. “The _vir’abelasan_ may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound?” Morrigan scoffed, “To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

That was not something that Aldaron feared. The tattoos on his face already marked him as Hers. But if she was dead or locked away then drinking from the Well would be no more binding than his vallaslin, a symbol only. “Is it possible Mythal still exists?” Aldaron asked. What if those legends were wrong, just as they had been wrong about the fall of Arlathan?

“Anything is possible,” Abelas replied dismissively.

“Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen’Harel and banished to the beyond,” Morrigan said.

“Elven legend is wrong,” Abelas sneered, “The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Murder? I said nothing of--,” Morrigan stammered in a shock that Aldaron felt equally.

“She was slain,” Abelas continued, “If a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple.” Then she was dead after all, and the other Creators likely dead as well. It changed nothing, but hearing it confirmed still made Aldaron sad. “Yet the _vir’abelasan_ remains. As do we. That is something.”

“Are you leaving the temple?” Aldaron asked.

“Our duty ends. Why remain?” Abelas asked in reply.

“There is a place for you, _lethallin_ ,” Solas stepped in, “If you seek it.”

“Perhaps there are places the _shemlen_ have not touched,” Abelas granted, though did not seem terribly optimistic.

“The Imperium went to great lengths to destroy elven history. You might be the last to know the truth,” Dorian pointed out.

“Would the ‘elves’ of your lands listen to the truth?” Abelas asked bitterly.

“They might,” Dorian shrugged, “Would it hurt to try?”

“It very well may, _shemlen_ , yes,” Abelas replied. There would be clans unwilling to hear change, unwilling to accept the truth, but there also had to be those, like Aldaron, who wanted that change and could accept that the legends might be wrong. “It may be that only _uthenera_ awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken. If fate is kind.”

He sounded so resigned, so willing to accept death as the only future for himself and his people. Aldaron did not want to accept that. The Sentinels may have lost their purpose in protecting this temple and the Well of Sorrows, but that did not mean it had to be their end. If these were the last of the ancient elves, Aldaron did not want to see them die. “You could come with us,” he offered,” Fight Corypheus. He killed your people.” A new purpose, even if only for a short while.

“We killed ourselves, long ago,” Abelas said, and when the elf turned to leave Aldaron had no words to stop him. He could not fathom their existence up to this point. Perhaps he had no right to ask them to stay. Maybe he was idealistic to believe they might help or that Abelas would ever see the Dalish as his people.

“You’ll notice the intact eluvian,” Morrigan said, breaking Aldaron out of his contemplation. Indeed, one stood at the far side of the pool that was the Well of Sorrows. “I was correct on that count, at least.”

“Is it still a threat?” Aldaron asked, “Can Corypheus use it to travel the Fade?”

“You recall when I took you through my eluvian-,” Aldaron would rather not, actually, “-I said that each required a key? The Well is that key. Take its power, and Mythal’s last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass,” Morrigan explained. That was a relief, to know they only had the one artifact to worry about. Aldaron would rather not destroy any more artifacts if it could be avoided. Turning her attention then to the Well once more, Morrigan stared at it thoughtfully, almost enraptured. “I did not expect the Well to feel so… hungry,” she murmured.

“Don’t go any closer, Morrigan,” Aldaron ordered, suddenly at full alert. She would try to take the Well’s power for her own if given the chance. He would not let that happen.

The woman turned to him and frowned, “I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“Or more likely, to your own ends,” Solas commented. “You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast. You cannot be trusted.” Aldaron was in full agreement.

“Of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this,” Morrigan argued, “Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

“You alone?” Aldaron asked in disbelief. “This is my heritage!”

“I have studied the oldest lore. I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream!” the witch continued to protest. “Can you honestly tell me there is anyone more suited?”

“I would be,” Aldaron growled. So he was not a mage, he was not as educated on their history as he could be. A Keeper would be more suited, but there were none here. Solas might be, but the elven mage cared little for the Dalish. He likely knew much of what the Well had to offer and had made no attempt to help the People. Aldaron did not want the power of the Well. Not for himself, at least, and that was what made him more suited.

“You lead the Inquisition,” Morrigan argued, “This is not a risk you can take. I have the best chance of making use of the Well… for everyone. Let me drink.”

“What’s to stop you from taking the knowledge and leaving?” Aldaron asked. What would Morrigan do with the power of the Well? Keep it to herself, share only what little was necessary. Aldaron would see this knowledge returned to the People, where it belonged.

“My word,” Morrigan bit out. “If that seems insufficient, Corypheus threatens all – even myself. He must be stopped.”

“And who stops you?” Aldaron demanded.

“I, Inquisitor, seek neither immortality nor your life,” the woman replied.

So she was a better choice than Corypheus, but Aldaron would not choose the lesser of two evils when there was another option. Aldaron looked to the Well, a moment of hesitation. It would be a lie to say he did not fear it at least a little. He was no mage, he did not understand magic. Already the mark on his hand terrified him, yet here he was contemplating receiving even more power. Willingly this time. He looked back to his companions, suddenly uncertain if his decision was the correct one. “Thoughts?”

“She is right about one thing,” Solas said, “We should take the power which lies in the Well.” But not that Morrigan should have it, left unsaid. No support for Aldaron as a better candidate, either, which was not reassuring.

“If it is truly between you and her… then let her take the risk. Maker help us all,” Cassandra said. Unsurprising. She’d had nothing good to say about anything in the temple. She would choose what she deemed safer for the Inquisition, not what was best for the elves.

Aldaron turned at last to Dorian. None of the others supported him, but surely— “I don’t want to risk loosing you to a well,” the man said, voice pained. Aldaron had to look away. Even Dorian? Aldaron had thought for certain at least he would understand why he could not let Morrigan have this.

“Enough deliberation,” Morrigan interrupted impatiently. “Give me your decision.”

Too eager, too arrogant. Aldaron couldn’t trust her. Dorian would be angry at him, but he had to do this. He could make his excuses later. “If anyone is to use the Well, it will be me.”

“So you will take what little knowledge you can understand and let the rest go to waste?” Morrigan argued furiously.

“And who’s to say it will go to waste?” Aldaron demanded in turn.

“I do,” the woman sneered, and turned away from him. She looked back to the well, thoughtful but resigned. “I am forever balked by those who think they know better than I. Drink if you will, for the sake of us all, but steel your will to do it.”

Aldaron had already. He was frightened, yes. They did not know what the Well could do, not truly. However, this was the best choice, not only for the Inquisition, but for his people. There was no other option. Bound to Mythal, that was apparently the price to pay. Aldaron was already bound to Mythal, symbolically. Why not make it literal as well? And if Abelas was correct, if Mythal was dead, then how binding could it truly be?

His companions, his friends, disapproved, but Aldaron was no longer uncertain. If it was between he and Morrigan, than he was the better option. He did not look back, however, as he stepped up to the edge of the pool. If he could see the disapproval on their faces – on Dorian’s face – he might change his mind. With a deep breath to gather his courage, Aldaron stepped down and into the pond.

 

* * *

  
The next thing that Aldaron was consciously aware of was Dorian’s voice, “If you don’t come through this I swear I’ll kill you.” Aldaron was lying on the ground. Everything hurt, but mostly his head. Like the worst hangover in the world. By the time he managed to open his eyes he was greeted with the sight of Dorian hovering beside him, his face lined with concern and fear. Aldaron was dazed, disoriented, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Dorian reached a hand out to him, but Aldaron waved him off as he slowly pushed himself back to his feet, legs unsteady under him. “How… do you feel?” Dorian asked hesitantly, watching and hovering like he was afraid Aldaron would fall over any moment. Aldaron felt like he might fall over any moment.

Otherwise, he was fine. He was not injured; the Well had not harmed him. But there was so much in his head, he could not make sense of his thoughts and there was a white noise, like a hundred people talking at once but so far away he could barely hear it.

Aldaron staggered to his feet, raised a hand to his aching head as he tried to steady himself. That was when he saw it. Corypheus. The darkspawn had finally caught up with them. His terror must have showed on his face because the others quickly followed his gaze to the other side of the chamber. Aldaron felt like he couldn’t move. He couldn’t fight like this, he could barely stand.

“The eluvian,” Morrigan said urgently.

Aldaron tore his gaze away from Corypheus and turned toward the mirror. He felt a power surge through him that he could not identify and the eluvian flared to life. That would be their escape. “Though the mirror, hurry!” They could not fight him now, not with the state that Aldaron was in. Not with all of them exhausted from fighting all day. Thankfully no one questioned him, even as Aldaron turned and raced toward the mirror, physically shoving Dorian ahead of him. The Inquisitor ensured that the rest of his companions went through first, ensured they were safe, then without a second thought Aldaron turned and ran through the mirror – and straight into someone’s back. Dorian’s back, he recognized after reorienting himself. The man had stopped dead a few paces from the eluvian – now dark and inactive behind him – but the impact jolted him out of whatever stunned daze had come over him.

The man took a stumbling step forward and looked over his shoulder. His eyes met Aldaron’s, wide with surprise and then his brow furrowed. “You… you reckless idiot!” Dorian turned fully toward him and grabbed him by the collar of his coat.

“Dori—,” Aldaron could not even begin his protest, or apology, or explanation, whatever had been on the tip of his tongue before Dorian’s lips crashed into his. The man’s hands were on his shoulders, gripping so hard Aldaron thought it might bruise. The kiss was fierce and rough and sloppy and full of desperation and all the feelings that Dorian had never been any good at saying out loud. When they finally parted Aldaron was panting softly, his hands fisted loosely in the fabric of Dorian’s robes, and only vaguely aware of the others still nearby. “I’m sorry,” Aldaron said breathlessly. He knew why Dorian was upset, they had been through this before, after Adamant, and Aldaron expected they would go through it again before everything was done.

Much to his surprise, however, Dorian laughed. It was breathless and soft and a little bitter, but it was a laugh all the same. “You daft… fantastic man. What are you apologizing for?”

“I made you worry again,” Aldaron replied softly. “And this time I knew what I was doing. I’m sorry.” He had known it was dangerous, Dorian had protested the entire thing, but Aldaron went and did it anyway.

Dorian sighed, moved his hands up to cup the elf’s face gently. “That’s what I get, I suppose. Can’t stop you from risking your life if you think it’s the right thing to do. Not even if I tied you to the bed and never let you leave.”

If Aldaron’s head didn’t still hurt so much he might have had something to say about that last comment. As it was the only thing he could think to say was “I am sorry.” Because he was. He did not like to make Dorian worry, though it did seem inevitable. “I know you didn’t want me to drink from the Well. But I… I couldn’t let some _shemlen_ witch take away what might be the last of my peoples’ history. I couldn’t--”

“I’ve heard your lecture before, no need to repeat yourself,” Dorian assured him. “I understand, amatus. I’m not happy about it, not by a long shot, but I understand why you did it.”

“I’m sorry,” Aldaron said one more time, just to be sure.

“Yes yes yes, you’ve said that,” Dorian sighed, then smiled softly and kissed him again, gently this time. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Like I have the worst hangover in history,” Aldaron said honestly, and let his eyes fall shut for the small amount of solace the darkness provided. “Everything is… so loud.”

Behind Dorian someone cleared their throat loudly and Aldaron forced his eyes open again, reminded that they were not alone. As Dorian stepped away from him the Inquisitor finally turned his attention to the others. Cassandra was looking pointedly in the other direction, her face somewhat redder than usual. “We should not linger here, Inquisitor,” Solas commented.

Aldaron was finally able to register their surroundings. The eluvian had admitted them to that strange between-place that Morrigan called The Crossroads. “Can he follow us?” Aldaron asked in concern, glancing over his shoulder to the now-dark eluvian.

“No,” Morrigan answered, “With the Well and its power gone the eluvian will not function from that side. We will be safe here for now, but he is correct, we should not linger.”

Aldaron nodded. He did not want to stay here anyway. “Do you know which mirror will take us back to Skyhold?”

“This way,” the witch answered, pointing into the distance.

Aldaron gestured for her to lead the way, not feeling up to it himself. He was exhausted and aching and as they walked soon fell to the back of the group. Dorian stayed by his side, matching his pace no matter how much Aldaron shuffled his feet as they trudged along. “I can see why you don’t like this place,” Dorian murmured softly. “It’s giving me a headache already.” Aldaron hated it; too much like the Fade for his comfort and it made his skin crawl. Dorian’s presence at his side was a comfort, however, and he hesitantly reached out, brushing his fingers against the man’s. Dorian didn’t look down, but returned the gesture ever so slightly, twining one finger together with Aldaron’s. The elf took the invitation for what it was and laced all their fingers together, clinging tightly to his lover’s hand as they walked. 


	26. Change

With the eluvian a journey that should have taken days was only a few hours. However but by the time the Inquisitor stumbled out of the mirror in Skyhold he looked ready to collapse. His hand had never left Dorian’s, and he kept reaching the other one up to his forehead and squeezing his eyes closed in pain and concentration. Morrigan kept casting looks over her shoulder at him, lips pursed and eyes narrow. Perhaps she didn’t think she’d be having as much trouble. Dorian returned each of her scathing looks with a glare of his own.

He wasn’t at all happy with the course of events. In fact, he was worried out of his mind. Aldaron had enough troubles already without adding this on top of them. He wasn’t even certain what this was. The combined knowledge of hundreds – thousands? – of ancient elves all thrust into Aldaron’s mind at once? How could anyone handle that sort of sensory overload? Aldaron was not handling it well. He was silent, his eyes fixed on the ground when they were open at all. When they finally stepped back through the eluvian into Skyhold Dorian felt like his hand on Aldaron’s arm was the only thing keeping the Inquisitor upright.

Without relinquishing his vice-like grip on Dorian’s hand, Aldaron struggled to straighten himself, to raise his head and look at his companions. “Cassandra, send word to the troops,” his voice was weak and pained. “Call everyone back to Skyhold.”

“Of course,” the woman replied, her usually stern face lined with concern. “Are you well, Inquisitor?”

Aldaron nodded weakly. “I just need to rest… there’s so much…” he trailed off, eyes squeezing shut again.

It was so unusual for Aldaron to show any weakness in front of other people, and that was what frightened Dorian the most. Aldaron had always been able to pull himself together before, even if only for a few minutes. “Let’s get you to bed then,” he suggested. “I don’t expect we’ll hear anything back until the morning anyway.” For once Aldaron didn’t protest, only nodded again and let Dorian herd him out of the room. There were few people in the garden when they emerged, but they quickly drew attention. The Inquisitor had been gone from Skyhold for weeks, and was meant to be away for several more days at the least, and here he appeared out of a storage room with a handful of his companions, all looking a little worse for the wear. Dorian watched as Aldaron made a valiant attempt at straightening himself. He raised his head and squared his shoulders, took his hand from Dorian’s for a moment and then grabbed the man’s arm again to keep steady as he walked.

The walk across the gardens and through the hall to the Inquisitor’s quarters was short, but seemed to take an age. Aldaron’s steps were careful, his back rigid and his hand trembling on Dorian’s arm. They drew quite a bit of attention, shocked whispers about wasn’t the Inquisitor in the Arbor Wilds? No one announced his return, when did he get here? Is he injured? Despite his best efforts Aldaron didn’t look much like the Inquisitor he always held himself up to be in front of these people.

When they finally reached the Inquisitor’s quarters Aldaron collapsed onto bed, heedless of his bloodstained clothes, and was asleep almost immediately. “You could at least get out of these filthy clothes first,” Dorian complained aloud even though no one could hear him. Aldaron was out cold. If only he slept this well on a regular basis. Resigned, Dorian stripped his lover down to his underclothes, then after a moment of consideration out of those as well. He’d been wearing the exact same thing for a week, it was horrifying.

The Inquisitor’s clothes, caked in blood and dirt and sweat, were left in a pile by the door for the maids, though Dorian honestly considered burning them. The mage’s own robes joined them soon after, before the man slid into bed as well.

Although he was also exhausted, Dorian found it difficult to sleep. Now that the initial fear was ebbing away his mind wandered. And Dorian discovered he had a lot to think about. Aldaron had done this to himself – whatever ‘this’ was – willingly. Not knowing how it would affect him. Knowing it might kill him. And why? Because elves.

Because between the options of risking his life and handing over anything elven to a human, he clearly thought the former was better.

And honestly Dorian couldn’t blame him.

Dorian wouldn’t have touched that Well with a hundred foot pole.

At this point Dorian was not surprised. It was the fourth time he’d watched Aldaron risk his life and been entirely helpless to do anything. And it probably wouldn’t be the last. By now he should be getting used to it, but watching Aldaron collapse into the Well of Sorrows hadn’t been any less terrifying than watching a mountain fall on Haven and knowing that the elf was still in there somewhere.

Aldaron never did anything by halves, did he? He decided the best course of action and followed. He didn’t stand around talking about it, either. No long-winded speeches about how he wanted to help the elves. No, Aldaron saw an opportunity and he took it, damn the consequences. That was a sure-fire way to get himself hurt. Dorian wished he could criticize, but unfortunately it also seemed to be working. Put an elf behind the throne in Orlais; fill his head with all of the knowledge that Tevinter had gone to such effort to destroy.

In comparison, what was Dorian doing? Convincing a handful of southerners that not all Tevinter mages were evil, blood-thirsty magisters bent on world domination? (A difficult task when they were, in fact, fighting an evil, blood-thirsty magister bent on world domination.) For all his talk, Dorian hadn’t actually accomplished much of anything, had he?

He was focused on defeating Corypheus, part of his mind argued, Tevinter would still be there in need of fixing when he was done. But Aldaron was focused on the same thing, another part pointed out, and he’d still managed to take the first steps toward improving things for his people. Because there were elves here in need of help. The only Tevinters here were Venatori, who just needed killing. You can’t change a country if you’re not in it, Dorian. It was with that thought lingering in his mind that the man succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

 

* * *

  
Aldaron slept for nearly a full day in fits and starts, his usual dreams interrupted by fleeting memories that were not his own. Flashes of light and sound, disjointed words and images as his mind struggled to sort through all the information it suddenly contained. When he woke the headache that had plagued him since drinking from the Well was gone. His thoughts once more felt like his own. And he was alone. His memories of arriving back at Skyhold were fuzzy, but he was certain Dorian had been there when he fell asleep. From the position of the sun, though, it seemed to be shortly after midday. Dorian must have gotten bored waiting for him to get up, Aldaron just wasn’t used to waking up alone because he wasn’t used to sleeping for so long.

It was his stomach reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the morning he arrived in the Arbor Wilds that finally forced Aldaron to haul himself out of bed. There was a pile of paperwork on his desk, but he ignored it in favor of getting dressed and heading downstairs in search of food. It was past a usual meal time, so the great hall was empty save a small clique of nobles at the far end. It felt unnervingly empty, but with Josephine and all the rest of his advisors away there were no visitors. Anyone of any importance was in the Arbor Wilds and Skyhold was down to a skeleton staff. Aldaron hadn’t seen the place this empty since the Inquisition first arrived. No one stopped him or even glanced in his direction as he passed through the hall and down to the kitchens. The cook did not seem surprised to see him, muttering something about hearing he was back but not quite believing it. Long past were the Inquisitor’s days of thieving food at odd hours. It had become such a regular occurrence in the months since settling in that the kitchen staff usually had some form of leftovers on hand to pawn off. That was not the case today, but the cook only heaved an exasperated sigh and set to work throwing something together while Aldaron waited patiently on a low stool at the table. When the food was set in front of him he ate in silence, and then thanked her politely before leaving the kitchens again.

He almost went into Josephine’s office to ask for something to do before remembering that she wasn’t here. For some reason the thought stopped him in his tracks. No one was here. Only those who had been with him in the temple.

They were all still out there; all his friends. Were they safe? Did Cassandra send the message like he asked? Of course, she wouldn’t overlook something like that. Had the raven arrived? Had they heard anything back yet? Who did he ask about that if Leliana wasn’t here?

Months ago he might have felt glad for the reprieve, for the solitude. Now it just felt lonely. He’d grown used to the bustle of Skyhold, where there was always someone to talk to and something to do. He remembered the pile of paperwork on his desk, but he didn’t feel up to reading that much right now. Or ever. The tavern would be empty of anyone he knew or cared about. He could seek out Solas or Morrigan, try and sort out what was going on in his head, but imagined that would only lead to a lecture on his foolishness and inadequacy.  

He didn’t even realize his steps had led him to the library until he was halfway up the stairs.

Mercifully, the library did not feel as empty and quiet as the hall had. In the rookery above the ravens cawed and flew about as usual, across the room Helisma was bent over her latest specimen, and in the nook that by now all of Skyhold must think of as his Aldaron found Dorian. He was seated in his usual chair, book in hand and reading in the small patch of sunlight that came in through the window, so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed the elf’s arrival yet.

Aldaron had the sudden very strong urge to climb into that chair with him. To squeeze into that too-small space and wrap himself around Dorian like a blanket. To pull the man’s arms around him and make Dorian read aloud to him like he’d done on so many occasions to help Aldaron fall asleep.

Dorian wouldn’t like that, not in public, so Aldaron held himself back and made his last two steps into the alcove pointedly loud enough to be heard. It worked. Dorian looked up from his reading, a brief glance at first, then with his full attention. “You’re up,” the man observed, book immediately forgotten. He didn’t even mark his spot as he set it aside and rose to his feet. “Feeling better, I take it?”

“Yes,” Aldaron replied. “Much better.”

“That’s a relief. What was it like?” Dorian asked curiously. “What did that thing do to you, exactly? You weren’t terribly coherent yesterday.”

Aldaron wasn’t certain he could describe the sensation. The way his head felt too full, how his thoughts did not feel like they were his own. He knew things that he had never learned, that he had no way of knowing. So much new information that his mind struggled to sort through it all. “It was… like hearing people talking, but all at the same time so you can’t focus on just one voice. I couldn’t think straight.”

The look the crossed Dorian’s face was somewhere between concerned and intrigued. “Are you still hearing it?”

“No,” Aldaron answered at first, then “Yes.” Because it was easy to ignore now, but something was still there in the back of his mind. “It’s quieter now… Like someone whispering from far away. But I can still hear it if I concentrate.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian breathed. He stared at Aldaron for a long moment, seeming to be lost in thought before he shook himself out of it. “And horrifying,” he added with a frown. “I’m still angry with you, by the way, for doing this to yourself.”

“I’m fine now, Dorian,” Aldaron tried to assure him. Mostly fine, at least. It didn’t seem to have harmed him.

“Yes, just hundreds of ancient elves talking in your head,” Dorian scoffed, “Perfectly fine and normal. Nothing at all to be concerned about. It’s not as though you collapsed, or could barely walk, or slept for an entire day. You…” he trailed off, the anger bleeding out of him as he grew quiet, “You scared me to death, amatus.”

“I know…” Aldaron replied just as quietly. Dorian always hid his fear behind anger or annoyance. He felt terrible for frightening him; that had never been Aldaron’s intention. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” he murmured. Hesitantly he took a step forward to close the distance between them, half convinced that Dorian would step back to keep the distance between them. He did not.

“Why did you do it?” Dorian asked instead. “If anything had happened to you… The Inquisition would fall apart.”

Just the Inquisition? Aldaron couldn’t help wondering. He looked up into Dorian’s eyes, searching for an answer, but the man looked away too quickly. “I can use this to help people. To help _my_ people,” he said earnestly. “Morrigan wouldn’t. She would keep it to herself, just like the eluvian. That’s no better than seeing it destroyed.”

Dorian sighed softly, “That’s what I imagined you’d say,” he murmured. “Everything that happened at the temple… It’s got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. Once this is done… If we’re still alive.” Then he did step away from Aldaron again and the elf felt his heart plummet into his stomach. “All my talk of how terribly wrong things are back home, but what do I do about it? Nothing.”

“You would just leave?” Aldaron asked in disbelief, “What about…?”

“Us?” Dorian supplied when the word died on Aldaron’s tongue. He finally met the elf’s gaze again and his expression turned soft. “Trust me, amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side. You make monumental decisions affecting the entire world. How can I not consider some of my own?”

They didn’t have to be apart for that. “Why don’t I go with you?” Aldaron asked hopefully, perhaps a little desperately.

“Take you away from all this?” Dorian asked, making a sweeping gesture with one arm. “I can’t ask that of you.”

All this? Skyhold? The Inquisition? All the power and responsibility that Aldaron had never wanted? “You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“Tempting,” Dorian mused, but shook his head. Aldaron felt his heart break a little. “We both know you would end up doing it all yourself. As much as watching my homeland beaten into submission would amuse me, this is something _I_ need to do.”

So he would just go. Go to the other side of the world and leave Aldaron here alone. “I need you at my side,” he all but begged. “Now more than ever.”

“Emotional blackmail is a fine thing to pull out of your arsenal,” Dorian sighed.

“I didn’t,” Aldaron began to protest, but Dorian cut him off with a short laugh.

“I’m joking,” the mage said. But Aldaron thought the laugh had not sounded genuine, and the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll think about it. Closely. This is your fault, remember. You inspired me with your marvelous antics. You’re shaping the world… for good or ill. How could I aspire to do any less? If it means proving that Tevinter can be better, that there’s hope even for my homeland? I would do anything.”

Anything. Anything except stay. Anything except let Aldaron go with him. All his talk about never letting Aldaron out of his sight in case he got himself hurt, was it only talk? Was he nothing more than a momentary distraction? A port in a storm? He should have known. Aldaron should have seen this coming right from the moment Dorian refused to make promises about their future together. But he was naïve and stupid.

“I… have to go,” Aldaron said, choking back his heartbreak. “I… There should be word back from the Wilds by now.” He couldn’t look at Dorian as he brushed past the man then fled down the stairs – the exact opposite direction his excuse would have required. Down the stairs and through the hall and out into the bright sun of the courtyard. Only then did he stop and take a deep breath of fresh mountain air.

It took only moments after they had parted for Aldaron to realize he should not have said what he had said. Dorian was right to accuse him of playing the guilt card; that was exactly what he had been doing. As soon as the elf stepped out of the keep and into the courtyard he realized how selfish and unreasonable he was being. He knew Dorian, and he knew that he man cared for him. That much was obvious and Aldaron did not doubt it. What hurt was that Dorian could speak so easily of leaving him, as though it didn’t upset him at all. But Dorian always spoke of their relationship that way, didn’t he? As though its end was inevitable regardless of their personal feelings. Maybe he was right.

Of course Dorian wanted to go change his homeland for the better, why wouldn’t he? And how could Aldaron deny the man he loved the opportunity to do that when it was something the mage cared so passionately about?

Selfish. 

It was selfish to ask Dorian to give up the thing that had driven him since the first time they had met – ridding Tevinter of corruption. And for what? For him? Aldaron held no delusions of grandeur. Whatever other people thought of him, he was still just a person. One useless, selfish person with divinely bad luck. His love life was not more important than the entire Tevinter Imperium, and Dorian was probably the only person in Thedas who could change that place for the better.

It had also been selfish to try and invite himself along. As long as he stayed by Aldaron’s side Dorian would stand in the Inquisitor’s shadow. If the Inquisitor followed his lover to Tevinter everyone there would assume the mage was a puppet on a string. Puppet to an elf. That would not go over well.

He was momentarily angry at Dorian for springing this on him with no warning, but ultimately ashamed of his reaction.

He avoided Dorian for the rest of the day, and that probably did not help, either.

But when the elf slunk back to his quarters late in the evening he was surprised to find Dorian already there. Aldaron had spent the entire day feeling terrible about their conversation, and he had assumed – incorrectly it seemed – that Dorian had been just as upset. So he had expected the man to spend the night in his own room. Though come to think of it, Dorian hadn’t spent a night there since Halamshiral.

For his part, Dorian was acting like nothing had happened. Maybe from his perspective nothing had. Maybe Aldaron was making mountains out of molehills. Still, the elf feigned exhaustion and immediately crawled into bed to avoid having to talk about anything. Even though he realized now that it would be best to let Dorian leave if that was what he wanted, the thought was painful. When the mage slid into the bed beside him Aldaron rolled over and pressed himself against Dorian’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist and laying his head on the man’s shoulder. At least for now Dorian wasn’t going anywhere, and that comforted him until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

It had been unfair to spring the idea on him so suddenly. The whole conversation had not gone as planned, and it was probably Dorian’s fault. Of course his lover would be upset. And obviously he was still upset. The Inquisitor was exceedingly good at concealing his emotions when he put his mind to it, but he had done a poor job of it that afternoon. He had not meant the conversation to be a declaration of his intention to leave once this was all over; he only wanted to put the idea out there, so if he decided to go back to Tevinter eventually it wouldn’t be a surprise.

He did want to go home and try to make a difference. Watching Aldaron change the world despite all of his fears had inspired that in him. But Tevinter was not a good place to be an elf, even one so highly respected as the Inquisitor. Aldaron was needed here, anyway. The Inquisition’s work would not end with Corypheus’ defeat, and an Inquisition needed an Inquisitor.

The big question was – assuming they both survived – whether he could bring himself to give all this up.

There was so much that Dorian would miss if he left. (Aldaron, mostly, though he had grown rather fond of some of the south’s other charms.) Not just the good things. He wouldn’t just miss Aldaron’s crooked smile, the sound of his voice, the feel of his lips. As he lay there in bed unable to sleep Dorian realized he would miss all those things he found so dreadfully annoying. Like being woken up in the middle of the night by an elbow to the ribs because the Inquisitor fought demons even in his sleep. Or the way Aldaron insisted on trying to hug him whenever the elf was particularly filthy (usually covered in someone else’s blood). Even when he had to be coaxed down from the rooftops because Skyhold had become too claustrophobic for someone used to a nomadic life. How strange that that had become the expected routine of his life.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because Dorian woke with the early morning sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows and casting the room in yellows and greens. Too early. Dorian fully intended to go straight back to sleep, until he rolled over and saw Aldaron sitting on the edge of the bed, back hunched and head in his hands. Now he had to get up and see what was wrong. He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep unless he did.

“Amatus,” Dorian murmured softly so as not to startle the elf too much. He propped himself up on one arm and reached out. Aldaron flinched a little at the first touch to his back, then relaxed as Dorian’s hand trailed down his spine. “Nightmare?” he asked. To his surprise Aldaron shook his head. What else could have him upset this early in the morning? Something to do with the Well? “What’s wrong?”

“You were right,” the elf said quietly, “You should go back to Tevinter.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Dorian replied, equal parts surprised and confused. That’s what Aldaron was sitting up thinking about at the crack of dawn?

“I… I don’t want you to go,” the elf’s voice was barely a whisper.

Dorian frowned in confusion, “You just said--,”

“I do,” Aldaron interrupted quickly, and finally turned to look at him. He cheeks were dry but his eyes were red. Had he been crying? Crying over Dorian? “I do want you to go and fix things in Tevinter. I know how much it means to you, but I… I don’t want you to leave me here alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone,” Dorian protested gently. He could see how this was tearing Aldaron up, shocking though it was that anyone could be so distressed to see him leave, and he felt much the same. “All our friends would still be here.”

Aldaron shook his head and looked away again. “They’re not you,” he said quietly.

“There you go, breaking my heart,” Dorian sighed. It wasn’t any less painful for him to consider leaving his lover behind in order to pursue his dreams. But perhaps he was more used to this sort of heartbreak. It still shocked him sometimes to think that Aldaron wanted to be with him. “I still haven’t decided, you know,” he pointed out, sitting up fully and joining Aldaron at the side of the bed. “And I wouldn’t be leaving any time soon regardless. I intend to see this Corypheus thing through to the end.”

“I know,” Aldaron said quietly, staring down at his hands in his lap. “Everyone had lives before this. Lives they can go back to when it’s all over… But I don’t.”

Was that was he was afraid of? With the crisis diverted, when the world no longer needed an Inquisition, all their friends would drift apart, go their separate ways as they pursued their own goals. And Aldaron, with no family and no homeland, would be left behind. Even if the Inquisition was disbanded, Aldaron couldn’t honestly think that everyone would forget about him, could he? The Inquisitor wouldn’t be left high and dry; there would always be a place for him somewhere. Although, maybe not the place he wanted.

Dorian was still convinced, however, that Tevinter would not be good for him. If Aldaron had hated the Orlesian court, then he would hate Tevinter all the more. His status would earn him a bare modicum of politeness from people who would much rather see him in chains. Dorian would not subject him to that.

“Come here,” Dorian sighed and pulled the elf into his arms. Aldaron melted easily into his embrace as he always had. He was making it all the harder to even consider leaving. “I never meant to upset you, amatus. I only wanted it to be less of a shock if someday I must return.”

Aldaron nodded very slightly. “I know I’m being selfish,” he murmured.

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of selfishness now and then,” Dorian assured. He was certainly guilty of it more often than not. Actually, now sounded like a good time to be particularly selfish. Pulling back from their embrace slightly Dorian pressed a kiss to Aldaron’s lips and gently pressed him back onto the mattress. “I hope you don’t have any plans for today,” he murmured, peppering open mouthed kisses down Aldaron’s neck.

“No,” the elf sighed, easily tilting his head back.

“Good,” Dorian smirked, “Because I don’t plan on letting you leave this bed any time soon.”

Very slowly a smile spread across Aldaron’s lips. “That sounds fine to me.”


	27. Panic

A sapling was requisitioned from a very confused officer and Aldaron planted it in a corner of the garden where he might be able to see it from his quarters. Dorian didn’t actually wind up getting his hands dirty. He stood by in quiet support and shooed off anyone who so much as looked curiously in their direction.

“Feel better?” Dorian asked when Aldaron was finished, sitting back on his heels and staring thoughtfully at the three foot tall plant.

“Yes,” Aldaron replied, much to his own surprise. It helped more than he had thought it would. Closure, maybe. “Thank you.”

“I did very little, but you’re welcome,” Dorian replied. But it meant a lot that the man was even willing to sit by and watch what, to him, must have seemed like a meaningless ritual.

Aldaron stood up and wiped the dirt from his hands off on his pants, already stained at the knees where he had been crouching in the dirt. Standing up he was taller than the sapling, but it would grow. That was the point. “I’m going to stay out here for a while. You can go back in if you want.”

“Alright,” Dorian said. “Do remember to clean up at some point,” he added, gesturing to the streaks of dirt on Aldaron’s clothing, “There’s no reason to let hygiene fall by the wayside just because dear Joesphine isn’t hear to scold you.”

“You’re still here to scold me,” Aldaron pointed out. There would be less disapproving frowns, but more threats of being thrown out of his own bed.

“Quite,” Dorian agreed with a knowing smile. “I’ll see you at dinner, amatus.”

 

* * *

The Inquisitor’s inner circle arrived at Skyhold five days after the Inquisitor himself and well ahead of the army. It was a strange five days, with significantly fewer demands on Aldaron’s attention and a notable lack of long hours spent in the war room. The majority of the five days, however, Aldaron spent alternately in bed or in whatever high point in Skyhold seemed the most isolated at the time, staring out at the mountains and trying to sort through all the new information in his head. When he concentrated he could hear the voices whispering at the back of his mind and sometimes he simply knew things; things he had no way of knowing before. It was unnerving still, but very slowly Aldaron was getting used to it. It gave him a lot of things to think about, and a lot of time to think about them.

So when his advisors finally returned, in a strange sort of roll reversal, Aldaron called them straight into the war room. He needed to know what had happened at the Arbor Wilds after he left in more detail than could be found in the short messages that ravens carried. He also needed to share what he’d learned at the temple and afterward.

The end was within sight. Corypheus’ forces had been soundly routed by the combined armies of the Inquisition and Orlais and the would-be god apparently fled the field as soon as the Inquisitor was gone. A resounding victory on all fronts. And, thanks to the voices from the Well of Sorrows, Aldaron knew what needed to be done next.

He felt capable for the first time since waking up in Haven to find the sky torn to shreds and his hand pierced by unknown magic.

The dragon was just a dragon, not an archdemon. Dragons could be killed. Aldaron had even done it once before. It wouldn’t be easy, not by a long shot. They were not likely to get the dragon away from Corypheus. Now that the monster had no army to hide behind the dragon was his only defense. So Aldaron would need all the help he could get.

When he was finally free of meetings (and even after leaving the war room there was still much to go over thanks to Aldaron’s many weeks away from Skyhold prior to the battle) Aldaron was not done working yet. He headed out to the gardens in search of Morrigan. Much as he hated the woman, there was much that the Well told him that he still did not fully understand. Sometimes he felt as though he only heard every other word the voices tried to tell him. She might be able to help him make sense of it.

Unfortunately there was no sign of the witch in the gardens. That was a little unusual. Most days she could be found there with her son, but perhaps they had taken the boy’s schooling inside for today. Aldaron was just about to leave and search elsewhere when he realized that the door to the storage room that housed the eluvian was flung wide open.

It was supposed to be locked.

Aldaron approached the open door with a sense of dread that only increased when he saw what was inside. The whole room was flooded with the eerie bluish glow that emanated from the eluvian’s active surface. Before it stood Leliana, shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

“What’s going on?” he asked in alarm.

“Inquisitor!” Leliana spun to face him, startled by his appearance. “Thank the Maker you’re here! Morrigan chased after her son into the eluvian. She said he activated it somehow.”

Morrigan’s son. Kieran. Aldaron had only met the boy once before, and briefly. Polite, if a little bit odd. Younger even than Aldaron’s sister had been.

Aldaron hated the eluvian. It frightened him, but that was exactly why he knew what needed to be done. The Crossroads were vast and bleak. A child – even a mage child as he expected Kieran was – could get lost in there and never be found again. And if he had the ability to activate the eluvian on his own…

The Inquisitor shook his head. It didn’t bear thinking about. “If we’re not back in an hour get help,” he ordered Leliana, and stepped through the mirror.

Then came to an abrupt halt.

This wasn’t the Crossroads. High cliffs of jagged stone rose up on either side of him, reaching up toward a sickly green sky.

He was in the Fade.

He couldn’t breathe.

It felt like all the air had left his lungs, but he couldn’t manage to fill them again. His throat clenched, his heart leapt wildly in his chest. Unbidden he remembered the last time he had walked in the Fade, the demons, the terror, the nightmare.

He couldn’t breathe.

He spun around and took two staggered steps back toward the eluvian before stopping himself again just out of reach of the mirror. Gasping for breath, mind reeling, he wanted to run away. He couldn’t be back here. Not again. Not again.

But there was a child lost in here. He had to find him.

Aldaron turned around again, away from the eluvian, then fell to his knees, lightheaded and gasping for breath. No, he couldn’t do this. Not here. Anywhere but here.

There were whispers at the back of his mind, voices that were not his own. _Be calm. Breathe._ Trembling and staring at the ground through eyes that blurred with tears Aldaron opened his mouth and took in a long ragged breath, then let it out shakily.

_Remember to breathe._

The voices were trying to help, but here in this place it was doing the exact opposite. The Nightmare spoke in his mind also and in this moment that was all he could hear. He wanted – needed – to get out of here but he couldn’t. Not until he found Kieran and saw the child safely out of this place. It was that thought that Aldaron focused on as he tried to bring his body back under control.

It worked. Slowly his breathing began to slow, his heart stopped beating hard enough to make him dizzy. His vision cleared as the tears dried up.

Then he vomited. Heaved up his breakfast onto the muddy ground of the Fade, gagging and retching until there was nothing left for his body to expel. Trembling all over, Aldaron sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was panting again, but not from fear this time. He felt weak and shaken, but forced himself to his feet on unsteady legs.

He had control of himself for a moment. Best get this over with quickly before that control shattered once more. He could not be out of this place soon enough.

 

* * *

It was too much. It was all too much. The Fade – around every corner he expected a demon – the voices in his head – telling him what to do, what to believe, too much like the Nightmare – that woman – Flemeth, Mythal? But a human – it was wrong. It was all wrong.

He had to get out. He had to get out.

Aldaron emerged from the eluvian again and nearly lost his footing as he stepped back into the real world. He staggered to the side and managed to catch himself with a hand on the wall. His legs were shaking, barely able to support him. His entire body felt ready to collapse at any moment.

“Inquisitor.” Someone was talking to him and that was the first time he realized he’d been staring blankly at the wall. He could barely think, but he turned to face the voice. It was Morrigan, standing only a few feet away and holding her son close. “Thank you,” the woman said. Aldaron stared at her blankly, barely able to comprehend her words. He couldn’t seem to make his mouth open to form words, either, even if he had known what to say.

“Morrigan,” Leliana interrupted gently. She was still here? “You should see to your son, don’t you think?”

The witch looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then nodded. “Come along, Kieran,” she said, and ushered her son back out into the garden.

Aldaron realized he was shaking all over, his whole body wracked with tremors. He tried to blink back tears, but his vision had gone blurry so that he could barely make out Leliana’s face. “Inquisitor,” she spoke his title gently and lay a hand on his shoulder. Aldaron flinched away from her violently, pressing himself back against the cold stone wall. It was too much. Everything was too much. Had he really stepped back out of the eluvian or was this all an illusion? A trick? A test? The woman stared at him a moment longer. “I’ll fetch Dorian.” And then she was gone.

The voices in his head were deafening and dissonant, like a hundred people shouting at once. His own thoughts tumbled over themselves, unable to focus. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears in an effort to drown it out, but it did nothing. His legs gave out, sending him sliding down to the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. Breathing ragged, he pressed his hands harder to his ears, deaf to the whimpers that escaped his throat and numb to the tears that lined his cheeks.

How long he sat there, trembling and crying and gasping for breath, Aldaron didn’t know. He didn’t hear the door open again. He didn’t hear the footsteps that raced across the room to his side. He was only very suddenly aware of someone pulling his hands away from his ears. The shock provoked an almost violent reaction. His eyes flew open but couldn’t focus through the tears and the panic. He jerked his hands out of the loose grip that held them and pressed himself harder against the wall at his back.

“Aldaron. Aldaron, look at me,” Dorian’s voice was soft but urgent, his hands on Aldaron’s face and gently forcing his chin up. “Look at me, amatus.”  As he blinked away the tears the man’s face slowly came into focus, grey eyes wide and brow lined with fear. Aldaron tried to open his mouth and say something but all that came out was a low keening moan. Softly, Dorian shushed him and ever so gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I’m here. You’re safe,” his voice was so soft Aldaron could barely hear it over the cacophony in his head, but it was smooth and even. His hands on Aldaron’s face were warm and solid. “You’re in Skyhold. It’s safe here. This is real.” Another whine escaped the elf’s throat unbidden. Everything was too loud, he couldn’t think. “Look at me, amatus. Focus on me.” With effort Aldaron met Dorian’s eyes. Unconsciously his hands reached out and latched onto the man’s clothing. His form was solid and warm and reassuring. “Good, keep focusing on me. Now I need you to breathe, amatus. Deep breaths,” Dorian himself took a long slow breath and Aldaron did his best to copy. He still felt like he couldn’t get enough air, but he focused on breathing and on the grounding feeling of the man’s form. “Good, just like that,” Dorian praised softly and wiped tears from Aldaron’s cheeks again. “Keep breathing. You’re back in Skyhold, amatus. This is real.”

This was real. This was real. Dorian was real. The breathing helped. His mind was beginning to clear, the voices pushed to the back as he focused on only Dorian’s instead. “ _‘Ma’nehn_ ,” he was barely aware of speaking as the word slipped out in a broken whisper.

A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “I’m here,” he assured. “I’ve got you.”

Aldaron could have almost cried with relief as the fear – that overwhelming and all-consuming terror – slowly began to subside. It left him still trembling slightly; feeling weak and exhausted. Without another word he forced himself to release the death grip he had on Dorian’s shirt and instead wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, hugging him tight.

“ _Noli timere,_ ” the mage breathed into his ear, arms wrapping around Aldaron’s chest and rubbing his back gently. “ _Quam fortis…_ ”

Aldaron couldn’t understand the words but they didn’t matter. The words never mattered, just Dorian’s voice, low and even and soothing. He pressed his face into the man’s collar and breathed in deeply. Dorian always smelled like parchment and leather, perfumed soaps and a hint of lyrium. The Fade smelled of sulfur and decay, the metallic tang of ozone that lingered around rifts. Even in dreams the demons couldn’t get the smell right.

“Will he be alright?” Leliana’s voice drifted to them from across the room. Aldaron hadn’t even been aware of her presence. He hadn’t been aware of anything other than Dorian, but gradually the rest of the world was coming back into focus.

“Yes, I think so,” Dorian replied without releasing his hold on the elf.

“If I knew that mirror would lead into the Fade, I wouldn’t have let him go alone,” Leliana said. She sounded almost apologetic. She’d known, then, about his fears. Of course she knew. Leliana knew everything.

“It certainly didn’t lead there the last time,” Dorian said. “Would you be so kind as to clear his schedule for the rest of the day? He’s certainly in no shape to be meeting with anyone important.”

“Of course,” Leliana assured. “Will he need anything else?”

Aldaron felt Dorian shake his head slightly, “No, I think we’ll be alright here. I’ll stay with him; get him back to his room when he feels like walking again.”

There was no further reply from Leliana, but Aldaron heard her footsteps retreating, and then a door closing and he knew he was alone with Dorian. His breathing had calmed, his heart felt normal. Gradually he forced himself to release the death grip he had on Dorian’s shirt. He took another deep breath, filling his head with the man’s scent before reluctantly pulling away from him. Now that it was over – mostly over, at least – he felt ashamed. He was the Inquisitor; Herald of Andraste; savior of the world. He was supposed to be brave, and yet he was reduced to a useless, sniveling coward because of a _place_.

“Better now?” Dorian’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, but worried.

Aldaron raised his eyes hesitantly to meet the man’s once more. He felt such humiliation and weakness that he was surprised to find no pity in Dorian’s eyes, only concern. There had only ever been concern in Dorian’s eyes, and yet Aldaron always expected otherwise. This man was too good for him.

“Hey,” Dorian said again, pulling his attention back again. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Aldaron was equally ashamed of how his voice came out shaky and weak, barely a whisper. “I am now.”

Gradually Dorian shifted until he was sitting by Aldaron’s side and leaning against the wall, an arm around the elf’s shoulders protectively. Aldaron pressed himself close to the man, curling against his side. “This one was bad,” Dorian observed, and he wasn’t wrong. It the worst panic Aldaron had experienced since that night after they returned from the Fade.

“I was back there again,” Aldaron murmured, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing back the memories that threatened to overwhelm him again, focusing on the solid, reassuring presence of Dorian at his side. “It looked the same… I kept expecting—I kept expecting to see that thing again. I thought… I thought--,”

“Shh,” Dorian soothed, cutting him off, “It’s over now. No demons here.”

No. No demons here. He was in Skyhold, and Skyhold was safe. Skyhold was always safe. In a moment of returning fear he glanced over at the eluvian, but it was dark now, inactive. No longer a threat. He curled closer against Dorian’s side. “I’m such a coward,” he bit out, angry at himself for losing his composure so completely.

“What makes you think that?” Dorian asked.

“This,” Aldaron said, looking down at himself. His hands were still shaking as the last of the adrenaline left his system.

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. “I think you’re very brave, actually,” he said. Aldaron opened his mouth to protest, but Dorian held up a hand to stop him. “The Fade is what you are most afraid of in the entire world, correct?” Aldaron nodded mutely. “And yet you faced it. You could have turned around and run away as soon as you realized where you were.”

“I almost did,” Aldaron said quietly.

“But you didn’t,” Dorian reminded him. “You were scared, but you didn’t run away. That is very brave. Believe me. I know a lot about running away.”

Aldaron fell silent and looked down at his hands as they stopped trembling. He didn’t feel very brave sitting on the floor and crying his eyes out. He didn’t feel brave at all. He felt wretched. A child had been less frightened than him in that place. They all must have been able to see it, as well. Although Aldaron had managed to pull himself together enough to walk and talk, he hadn’t stopped shaking the entire time.

And he had stood there before the last remnants of his patron goddess a pathetic terrified mess.

It made him want to cry all over again.

“Dorian,” Aldaron said softly.

“Hmm?” Dorian glanced down at him.

“I have to fight a dragon,” the elf stated.

For a long moment Dorian didn’t say anything. “Is this going to become a habit? You walk in the Fade, and then you go fight a dragon to make yourself feel better?”

“No,” Aldaron shook his head slightly. “This is different. Mythal told me to.”

“Mythal…” Dorian repeated, doubt clear in his voice. “You’ll have to explain that one a bit more.”

“Kieran didn’t activate the eluvian himself, I don’t think,” Aldaron said. “In the Fade we found Morrigan’s mother. She… She’s Mythal.”

“Morrigan’s mother is an ancient elven goddess?” Dorian asked in disbelief.

“Yes. No… Sort of,” Aldaron frowned. “She said that... Not all of Mythal died. Some part of her… her spirit remained, and it found Flemeth, and now it’s a part of her.”

“So Morrigan’s mother is possessed by the spirit of an ancient elven goddess,” Dorian reiterated.

“I think so,” Aldaron said. “She is Mythal… at least in part. I never understand anything about magic,” he mumbled, feeling stupid as always in conversations like this. Dorian would have understood if he was there. Morrigan seemed to understand. Aldaron wouldn’t have believed it if not for the voices in his head insisting on the truth of the woman’s words.

A tiny smile tugged at Dorian’s mouth but was quickly subdued before Aldaron could place the emotion behind it. “So, you met your favorite goddess and she told you to go fight a dragon. Why do you have to do this?”

“I have to tame it,” Aldaron clarified. “So that it can fight Corypheus’ dragon. We have to kill the dragon before we can kill Corypheus, but I can’t fight both of them at the same time.”

A moment of silence, and then “That actually makes sense,” Dorian admitted. “Is this a specific dragon or do we have to find one on our own?”

“A specific one,” Aldaron replied. “I know where I need to go. There’s an old shrine to Mythal back in the Arbor Wilds. The dragon will be there.”

“You know, when you told me last time that you wanted to fight a dragon ‘for practice’ I didn’t think you were being prophetic,” Dorian sighed. “I had rather hoped it would be a one-off.”

Aldaron remembered how much Dorian had protested that venture, though he had seemed to enjoy it by the end. “You don’t have to come,” he assured. This was something he had to do, and while he would appreciate the support he wouldn’t force Dorian to do this again.

Dorian frowned at him. “You plan to go fight some sort of mystical god dragon and you think I’d be happier sitting here twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to come back?” he asked incredulously. “What honestly makes you think I’d let you run off to do something like that on your own? Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Dorian always said things like that, but it still surprised Aldaron. For all the man’s complaining about camping and fighting and the weather he still insisted on going everywhere that the Inquisitor went. Was he honestly that worried about Aldaron’s well being? It shouldn’t surprise him anymore at this point, but it still did. “It’ll have to be soon,” he murmured.

“Of course,” Dorian agreed. “Not today, though. You’re in no shape to be traipsing through the wilderness in search of dragons.”

“I’m feeling much better now,” Aldaron assured him softly, but Dorian was right. He was calmed down now, but still shaken a little from the experience, exhausted now that the adrenaline had worn off.

“And I’m glad to hear it,” Dorian replied. He leaned in to give Aldaron a kiss, but the elf stopped him with fingertips on his lips.

“I threw up… in the Fade,” he said to answer Dorian’s confused expression.

The man’s brows shot up as he pulled away again. “That will certainly be a pleasant surprise for some spirit,” he commented, pulling a disgusted face. “Let’s get you something to wash away that horrible taste. Do you feel like walking around yet?”

“I think so,” Aldaron replied. He wasn’t shaking anymore, and Dorian could probably tell also because they were still pressed close together. He didn’t really want to leave Dorian’s embrace, but he did want to leave this room. He still hated the eluvian, even more so now than he had before, and would feel much better out of its shadow. He reluctantly pulled away from Dorian’s side and rose slowly to his feet, hand on the wall just in case. But his legs felt steady.

Dorian stood as well, dusting off his pants. The floor in here was rather filthy, Aldaron realized belatedly. He would probably hear about it later, when the memories of his terror were less fresh. “Shall we?” the man asked, cocking his head toward the door.

Aldaron nodded and let his lover lead the way back out into the garden. There he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air, listened to the wind in the trees, further reassuring himself that he was back in reality. “Amatus?” Dorian’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and Aldaron looked over to see the man’s face lined with concern again.

“I’m alright,” he assured, and offered a small smile. “I am starving, though.”

Dorian laughed softly. “That’s understandable. Shall we retire for an early dinner, then?”

“I think we should raid the kitchens,” Aldaron agreed, nodding sagely.

“You know, I’m not sure it counts as raiding when the entire staff fully expects it to happen and is prepared,” Dorian pointed out.

“That does make it less fun,” Aldaron admitted. Well, he wasn’t feeling well enough for a proper kitchen raid anyway.

“Why don’t we raid the wine cellar instead,” Dorian suggested with a smirk. “Take something rare and expensive, possibly with a note on it ‘reserved for the Marquis of someplace important’. You deserve at least that much after the day you’ve had.”

“You’re motives are entirely selfless, then?” Aldaron asked, knowing full well that Dorian’s desire to raid the wine cellars – which he was still technically banned from – was at least a little bit selfish.

“Of course,” the man replied with a knowing smirk. “I live to serve, Inquisitor.”

“Well, then lead on Lord Pavus,” Aldaron said with a sweep of his arm.

“As you command, Your Worship,” Dorian replied. He dropped a low bow with excessive flourish before offering his arm to Aldaron, which the elf accepted readily and let Dorian lead him through the garden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote p. much this entire chapter today because I accidentally played Descent all week and forgot to write. My bad. (Aldaron does not like the Deep Roads. Not a good place for claustrophobics.)
> 
> _Noli timere_ \- Don't be afraid  
>  _Quam fortis_ \- How brave/strong


	28. End

Taming a dragon, it turns out, is significantly easier than killing one. At least if you already have some sort of divine psychic bond with the creature, which was apparently the case here. Dorian had witnessed the whole thing and he still didn’t entirely understand what had happened. Neither did Aldaron, he expected. At least, he’d asked and the elf hadn’t been able to explain it with any sort of coherence. The same story as the one and only time Dorian had asked him how the Anchor worked. “I don’t know, it just does.”

The Inquisitor was many things, but eloquent was not usually one of them.

And taming dragons? Shockingly anticlimactic.

But the Inquisitor had a dragon now to match Corypheus’. There was only one thing left to do, find the monster himself and end this thing once and for all. Presumably that’s what was going on right now in the war room. Dorian found himself unable to focus on anything else. He’d read the same paragraph at least five times now and still didn’t remember a single word. How close were they, really? How fast would the end come now that all the pieces were set? How would it happen? And where? Much too soon, Dorian found the answers to his questions.

All of Skyhold heard the explosion, felt the ground shake from the force of it. There were shouts of alarm and confusion, changing quickly to fear as all eyes turned to the source of the blast. In the not so distant sky over what had once been Haven the Breach had roared back to life with a vengeance.

Dorian made it to the main hall just in time to see the Inquisitor burst out of the war room, his advisors trailing behind him in various states of distress. Aldaron was clutching at his left wrist, the hand itself alight. The Anchor glowed as bright as Dorian had ever seen it, spitting and sputtering like fire on a damp log. “Tell anyone who’s able to fight,” the Inquisitor ordered, “We need to leave as soon as possible.”

“What happened?” someone asked as the advisors scattered to go deliver the message. It was Varric, somehow able to reach Aldaron’s side before Dorian even on those stubby little legs.

“It’s Corypheus,” the Inquisitor replied. Gasps of shock and terror could be heard throughout the hall, but went completely ignored. “He’s reopened the Breach. We need to leave within the hour.”

“It’s about time he showed his ugly face,” the dwarf replied. “Bianca and I will be ready when you are.” He threw a short mock salute and was off, running as fast as those little legs would carry him.

Only then did Aldaron appear to notice Dorian. “It’s really him, then?” the man asked.

The emotionless façade the Inquisitor always wore faltered for half a second and then was back in place. “Who else could have done that?” he asked, pointing to the windows at the far end of the hall. Even though the stained glass the green haze caused by the Breach was obvious. “Come on, there’s no time to waste.”

They climbed the stairs to the Inquisitor’s quarters in silence. Each window or unrepaired crack in the walls offered a glimpse of the Breach. It was impossible to ignore. Aldaron continued holding his left wrist tightly with the right, and Dorian realized halfway up the stairs that it was to keep his hand from shaking. The fingers of that hand flexed and twitched in a way that did not look natural or controlled. He kept the hand curled tightly into a fist as much as possible as he pulled on his leather armor, and Dorian couldn’t help watching out of the corner of his eye as he dressed as well.

Aldaron’s hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t even buckle the straps that held his daggers secure at his back, so Dorian went over and did it for him. “Does it hurt?” he asked to fill the tense silence between them. The mark hadn’t stopped glowing and sputtering since the Breach had opened again.

“Yes,” Aldaron admitted, a surprise in itself that he wouldn’t deny it. How long had it been before Dorian realized that closing rifts caused him pain? Crestwood? No, after that. Too long, at any rate.

“Can you still fight?” Dorian asked, and it came out more condescending than he’d meant.

“Yes,” Aldaron insisted stubbornly. The way his hands were shaking, though, Dorian wasn’t so certain. He knew there was no other choice, however. This was the moment everything had been leading up to. Aldaron was the only one who could close the Breach again and stop Corypheus for good. It would all end here, one way or another. So they should get going. No time to loose. And yet Dorian found himself smoothing out the lapels on Aldaron’s coat as though they were going to a ball and not into battle. “Dorian…” Aldaron said quietly. He wasn’t looking at Dorian, but at a spot just above the man’s shoulder. The Breach, the mage realized. He was staring at the Breach. And he looked, for once, every bit as young as he actually was. “I’m scared.”

That Aldaron would admit it, even quietly, even only to Dorian, said much about how frightened he truly was. To be perfectly honest, Dorian was frightened as well. He would be surprised if anyone right now wasn’t. But Aldaron was the one who needed to be brave, who needed to confidence to see this thing through. “Don’t be,” Dorian replied, forcing a smile that he hoped was reassuring. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

Aldaron’s eyes darted to Dorian’s face and he stared with wide eyes, mouth agape as though the man had just said something shocking. For a brief moment Dorian panicked, worried that he had accidentally offended his lover. Then he took Dorian’s face between his trembling hands and kissed him, hard and desperate, the Anchor warm against Dorian’s cheek. And Dorian knew full well it might be the last kiss he ever got. He clung to Aldaron, crushing the elf against his chest, trying to memorize the feel of him, the taste, the smell. Just in case this was the last chance he had. Eventually the need to breathe and the urgency of their situation forced them to part. Aldaron looked up at him, his face a picture of longing and fear. “Dorian… _‘Ma’nehn_ I—,”

“Don’t,” the man interrupted. He thought he knew what his lover intended to say, but he didn’t think he could bear to hear it right now. It would be too final. Too much a goodbye. “Whatever it is, tell me when this is done.” Give him a reason to survive. “Now,” Dorian forced himself to take a step back, away from Aldaron as the elf stared up at him uncertainly. “Put on your Inquisitor face. It’s time to go save the world.”

Aldaron’s eyes searched his face for a long moment more before he finally nodded, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and schooled his expression into one of emotionless confidence. There he was: the Herald of Andraste, figure of legend. There was the version of Aldaron that they would write songs about. Not the nervous young man that Dorian had fallen in love with.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” the Inquisitor said with a sigh. He checked that his daggers were secure, and Dorian noticed that his hands had stopped shaking. Good. Maybe they would make it through this thing after all.

 

* * *

Dorian had never seen the Breach up close when it was still expanding, still raining demons from the sky. Seeing it now, he was glad to have missed that part. The ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes were the same as he remembered, a burnt out collapsing husk of what must have at one point been rather magnificent. And there in midst of it all, as though he had been waiting for their arrival, was Corypheus.

It was sheer dumb luck that kept Dorian by the Inquisitor’s side as the ground crumbled beneath their feet. As the first foundations of the temple were torn from the earth with a force of magic like nothing he had ever seen before half of their companions were left behind. Dorian himself had to scramble forward from the edge to keep from falling. Ahead of him Aldaron was already running into danger, dagger in one hand and a fistful of throwing knives in the other that he sent one after another into the shades that blocked his path to Corypheus, and then one at the would be god himself. The thrown blade was knocked aside easily but Aldaron already had both daggers in hand again. Dorian threw up a barrier around him without thinking. But when the Inquisitor lunged forward his daggers connected with nothing. Corypheus was gone, leaving even Dorian looking around sharply in confusion.

Then Aldaron was off running once more.

Later Dorian would only remember the battle as a blur of demons and spells, struggling to keep a barrier up around Aldaron between slinging fireballs at anything that moved. The spike of fear every time he lost sight of his lover amidst the chaos. He wouldn’t be able to tell you for certain who was there fighting alongside them. Above their heads dragons winged and roared, deafening and much too close for comfort, until they weren’t. Aldaron cried out in pain when their dragon went down, clutching at his head as whatever connection he had with the beast was violently severed. But he was back on his feet a moment later, knuckles white around the hilts of his daggers and running full tilt toward the remaining dragon.

The loss of his dragon turned Corypheus desperate. Or perhaps it was that he no longer had anywhere to run. The Inquisitor had chased him to the highest point in what remained of the temple on these impossible floating islands.

A final blast of raw magic knocked Dorian to the ground with enough force to send him tumbling and skidding down a ruined set of stairs to land sprawling in the gravel below. Bruised and disoriented he managed, with great effort, to pull himself up to his hands and knees. He scrambled for his staff, knocked out of his hands in the fall and lying a few feet away, and then used it to help pull himself to his feet. He didn’t see how it all ended, only an explosion of green that had him shielding his eyes.

And then the ground fell out from under him.

Whatever had been holding them in the air - either the Breach or Corypheus, Dorian wasn’t certain - was gone, and he was terrifyingly reminded that they were actually standing on a floating mountain. A boulder crashed into the ground not a foot away from him and Dorian stumbled out of the way. The ground beneath him shook and his stomach leapt into his throat as they plummeted toward the ground. But he’d lost sight of Aldaron in all this chaos. “Aldaron!” he screamed. Where was he?  He tried running back up the stairs to where he’d seen the elf last, but a chunk of stone larger than Dorian crashed into the ground in front of him, blocking his way, and then the whole structure crashed back into the mountaintop from which it had been torn with enough force to knock Dorian off his feet once more.

When he came around it was with Cassandra rolling him over onto his back. None too gently, either. “Are you injured?” she asked, all business.

Dorian had to take a moment to think about it. He hurt, definitely, but he didn’t think he was injured. He propped himself up on his elbows, and then sat up, shook his head to clear it and was immediately surrounded by a cloud of dust. Lovely. “No,” he answered eventually, “I don’t think so.”

The Seeker offered a hand to help him up, which Dorian accepted gratefully. His entire body ached, and he was already anticipating the bruises he would have the next day. “Where is the Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked when he was back on his feet.

That’s right. Aldaron, he’d been looking for Aldaron. “He’s…” Dorian whipped his head around, scanning the rubble that surrounded them for any sign of the elf. He felt a spike of panic once more. “He was…” Where was he? “Aldaron?!” he called out, unable to keep the fear from his voice. He saw the others, his friends, all of them looking a little worse for the wear, but he didn’t see Aldaron anywhere.

“Inquisitor?” at his side Cassandra called out as well.

“I’m here,” the voice that answered was tired, but strong. Dorian spun toward the voice and there he was, appearing over a pile of rubble. “I’m alright.”

The Inquisitor was filthy, spattered with blood and ichor and mud from the toes of his boots to his hair, but in that moment he was the most beautiful thing that Dorian had ever seen. “You’re alive,” Dorian breathed. He could hardly believe it. True stories of heroes never ended with happily ever afters, and yet there he stood, all in one piece and alive. “And I’m alive,” he added with a bit of shock.

“Then it’s over? How lovely,” someone said from somewhere behind Dorian, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t take his eyes off Aldaron.

“It’s over,” Aldaron confirmed.

“What now?” someone else asked.

“Now…” Aldaron paused, looked back over his shoulder briefly, and then back at the friends gathered around him. His eyes met Dorian’s and a tiny, exhausted smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “We go back to Skyhold.”

Dorian didn’t realize he was moving until he was suddenly in front of Aldaron, clasping the elf’s face between his hands. Aldaron stared up at him, and the smile widened. “You’re alive,” Dorian said again.

“We did it,” Aldaron replied breathlessly. His hands came up to rest against Dorian’s. They were filthy, caked with blood and dirt, but Dorian didn’t care at all. It was over. And they were alive. Both of them. “You’re a mess,” Aldaron added with a breathy laugh.

He probably was, but Dorian didn’t care about that right now, either. “You should see yourself,” he replied.

Aldaron laughed again, “I’m always a mess.”

“You’ll find no argument from me,” Dorian chuckled in return.

Aldaron was practically grinning as he leaned in and brushed a feather-light kiss against Dorian’s lips before pulling away again. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but the Elf was already sagging, shoulder’s slumped. Dorian was exhausted as well, so it would have to do for now. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

They were welcomed back to Skyhold with a deafening cheer. Conquering heroes, the lot of them. It all still felt somehow surreal, like any moment Dorian would wake and find it all a dream. But he ached so much that it had to be real.

The Inquisitor was positively mobbed by revelers wishing to offer their thanks and congratulations and praises. Aldaron accepted them all, flustered and flushed by all the attention, but grinning. He could barely walk two steps without being stopped. For that matter, neither could anyone else.  Someone even came right up to Dorian and shook his hand. The mage was so surprised he couldn’t even respond, just stared open mouthed the whole while and then stood there in shock, certain there must have been some sort of mistake. He was jolted out of his stupor by a hearty slap on the back. “How’s it feel to be one of the good guys, Sparkler?” Varric asked with a laugh. Dorian stared at him, then down at his hand, and then back at Varric. He was saved from having to answer by another deafening cheer and looked up to see that Aldaron had made it to the steps up to the main hall where his advisors awaited to offer their own congratulations. Aldaron accepted their handshakes, and a tearful embrace from Josephine, then turned to look out at the crowd below like he wasn’t entirely certain what to make of it.

“Speech!” The Iron Bull’s voice rang out over the crowd. The roar was quickly repeated by someone else, then another. Flustered, Aldaron looked back at his advisors uncertainly, or for help, Dorian couldn’t quite tell. Speeches were not his strong suite, but whatever he said probably didn’t matter right now. Anything would make the crowds happy at this point, and Dorian couldn’t hear much of anything over the cheering, so whatever the Inquisitor eventually said was likely completely lost to all except those standing up there with him. Josephine or Varric would write up something suitably heroic for the world to remember him by.

 

* * *

An hour later found Dorian finally able to sink into the bath he desperately needed in the Inquisitor’s quarters. Aldaron was still being fawned over somewhere, but Dorian had slipped away. He could only stand around in filthy robes for so long, after all, and there would be plenty of time for celebration in the days to come. He’d just finished washing the last of the dust out of his hair when he heard the door open, and then a moment later Aldaron appeared at the top of the stairs. From the looks of things he’d begun undressing on the way up, because he had his gloves and belt and coat slung over one arm.

“There you are,” he said when he spotted Dorian across the room, and dumped what he was holding unceremoniously on the sofa.

“Finally escaped the adoring throngs?” Dorian asked as he made himself comfortable in the warm water.

“Finally,” Aldaron confirmed. He pulled off his boots and then crossed the room, shedding clothes as he went until he was standing beside the tub stark naked. “Make room.”

“This tub isn’t exactly made for two people,” Dorian said, but he sat up a little straighter and pulled his legs in to make space anyway.

“Too bad,” Aldaron replied. He slipped into the water with a sigh, sending some of it sloshing out over the sides. “After this I’m going to sleep for a week,” he breathed, eyes closing blissfully.

“That’s no good, you’ll miss the party,” Dorian protested. “I hear they’re already trying to put something together in the tavern. They’ll probably drink the place dry tonight.”

Aldaron hummed thoughtfully, “That does sound fun,” he admitted, “Josephine is planning something more… fancy for a week’s time. For our allies and such.”

“She’s going to put on a formal banquet in a week?” Dorian asked in surprise, “That’s an endeavor. If anyone can pull it off, though, it will be your ambassador. Planning to gorge yourself on tiny cakes?”

Aldaron’s soft laugh sent ripples through the water between them. “You know me so well,” he mused.

“You’re incredibly predictable, amatus, but I forgive you,” Dorian replied. “Come here, let me wash the filth out of your hair. You’re an even worse mess than usual.”

Opening his eyes, Aldaron shifted carefully, turning around so his back faced Dorian. It sent more water sloshing out over the edge of the tub. He dunked his head under the water briefly and then Dorian got to work scrubbing the blood and dirt and sweat out of his hair, out from behind his long ears. “I can’t believe its over,” he breathed after a moment of silence.

“Me either,” Dorian agreed. “I imagine if this were a dream, however, I’d be in a great deal less pain.” Although the bath had helped with that, the warm water soothing his sore muscles.

Aldaron grunted in agreement. “How long has it been?” he asked. “I haven’t been keeping track of the days.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” Dorian assured him, “More important things to worry about. It’s been…” he paused to remember back to when all this began. When he left Tevinter, when the sky exploded, when he arrived in Redcliffe, when he met Aldaron for the first time. “Just over a year since the Breach first opened,” he answered eventually. That was when it had begun for Aldaron, hadn’t it?

“Is that all?” Aldaron asked. “It feels so much longer.”

It did. It was difficult to believe that he had only known Aldaron for a year. Difficult to believe that someone could come to mean so much to him in such a short amount of time. Frightening, even. “Rinse,” he ordered, to avoid continuing the conversation. Aldaron leaned forward and dunked himself under the water again, running his hands through his hair to get all the soap out before he emerged again. “Much better,” Dorian said in satisfaction.

Aldaron wiped the water out of his face and then leaned back against Dorian’s chest, resting his head against the man’s shoulder. “Can I sleep for a week now?”

“I wouldn’t recommend doing it in here,” Dorian advised, sliding his arms around his lover’s waist. “The water will get cold, your hands will get all wrinkly, it won’t be pretty.”

Aldaron’s only response was a noncommittal hum as he closed his eyes again. For a long moment he was silent, Dorian worried he did intend to fall asleep in here. Then he opened his mouth again and spoke, “Solas left,” he said, soft and sad.

“I’d wondered about that,” Dorian commented. He had noticed the elven mage’s absence following the battle, but been too distracted to ask about it. “Just up and left?”

“Didn’t even say goodbye,” Aldaron murmured.

“Any idea why?” Dorian asked. He knew that Aldaron had looked up to the other elf in a sense, even though they didn’t always get along. Not to mention everything Solas had done to help Aldaron learn to cope with his nightmares.

“He was upset that the orb – the thing that made this -,” Aldaron explained, lifting his marked hand out of the water, “Was destroyed when I closed the Breach. But I didn’t expect him to just… leave without a word.”

“Perhaps he’s just upset,” Dorian said optimistically, “Gone off to be comforted by some of his spirit friends. He’ll show up again eventually.”

“Maybe,” Aldaron murmured, but he didn’t sound convinced. He sighed and fell silent again. Thinking deep thoughts, Dorian expected. Or trying not to fall asleep. It had been a very long day. Dorian wouldn’t refuse a nap right now, either. Just not in the bath.

“Amatus,” the man said softly after a long moment, loath to break the peaceful silence between them. “The water’s getting cold.”

“Magic it hotter,” Aldaron mumbled in reply.

“If you’re going to fall asleep the bed would be much more comfortable,” Dorian argued.

Aldaron heaved a sigh and opened his eyes. “I’m not falling asleep,” he protested, and pulled himself out of the water.

The view offered was something Dorian happily took advantage of, raking his eyes over the elf’s lean body as he climbed out of the tub, following the tracks of water down his back. Only when he wrapped a towel around his waist did Dorian cease his ogling and haul himself out of the tub as well. “You just said you wanted to sleep for a week,” he reminded.

“I do,” Aldaron replied. “I’m tired, but I’m not… tired.”

That shouldn’t have made any sense, but Dorian was beginning to understand what Aldaron meant when he said things like that. “Still too much excitement?”

“Something like that,” Aldaron replied with a shrug as he began to dry his hair.

“Do you want to see what’s going on at the tavern, then?” Dorian suggested. “Get blind drunk with your soldiers? It’s the occasion for it.”

Aldaron seemed to consider it for a moment before he answered, “Only if you’ll come with me.”

“When have I ever turned down an opportunity to get drunk?” was Dorian’s only reply. It made Aldaron laugh. A good sound, and something he hoped to hear much more frequently now that his lover had fewer worries and responsibilities weighing him down. He dried himself off quickly and found a fresh set of clothes. Just as he was fastening his breeches a pair of arms slipped around his waist and soft lips pressed kisses along his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Aldaron murmured against his shoulder, soft enough if not for the relative silence in the room Dorian wouldn’t have heard it. “After everything…”

Dorian felt his heart skip a beat, remembering suddenly what Aldaron had tried to tell him before the battle. Did Aldaron remember that? “I fully expected to die,” Dorian admitted. It was inevitable in all this chaos, he had thought, and maybe the man he had been in Redcliffe had actually wanted that. “And you could have been a martyr,” he realized. That was how all the legends ended. Heroes don’t get happy endings in real life. Just this one time, though, it seemed they might. “The songs they would have composed,” he mused.

“There will still be songs,” Aldaron pointed out. There had already been songs about the Inquisitor’s exploits.

“Yes,” Dorian was forced to agree. He turned around slowly in his lover’s embrace to look down at him. “But they won’t have the same gravitas.” He didn’t know how things were down south, but no one in Tevinter wanted to read about happily ever afters. Those were only for children’s tales. Well, he did so love disappointing Tevinter. “We’ll just have to be satisfied with being alive. And together.”

A lopsided grin spread across Aldaron’s face. “Together,” he confirmed, and leaned up to press their lips together. Dorian kissed him back and wrapped his arms around Aldaron’s slim shoulders, pulling the elf close. Finally it didn’t seem like a dream that someone like Aldaron actually wanted him, and wanted to be with him. And this, this disgustingly easy domesticity that had built between them, was something he could have forever if he wanted. Aldaron was still smiling when they parted and the elf pulled away to finish getting dressed.

It took Aldaron all of five minutes to get ready to go anywhere. It took Dorian significantly longer. For the sake of getting to the tavern before the celebratory masses drank the place dry, the man made an effort to move quickly, but still Aldaron complained at him to ‘hurry up’ no less than three times.

There was something different about him already, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. It made perfect sense, in hindsight, but Dorian hadn’t expected the effect of lessened responsibilities to be so quick or so obvious. Or maybe it was only obvious to him because he spent so much time watching Aldaron, memorizing all the tiny cracks in his façade. But as they crossed the courtyard there was a spring in Aldaron’s step that Dorian had never noticed before.

The tavern was packed full likely beyond a safe capacity. It seemed almost like the entire population of Skyhold had squeezed itself into the building. When the Inquisitor stepped through the door the usual chatter died down somewhat as all eyes turned toward him. Aldaron stopped in his tracks and looked around a little nervously. Dorian didn’t understand at first why everyone was so shocked. The Inquisitor often showed up at the tavern for a drink or to talk to someone. Then again, he didn’t often do it right after killing an ancient darkpawn magister and saving the world.

After a moment of tense and incredibly awkward silence Aldaron opened his mouth to speak. “I… heard we were celebrating?” he said almost uncertainly. As though afraid he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to.

Thankfully the tavern patrons at large seemed to think the Inquisitor’s words were a joke. There was laughter and cheering loud enough to shake the rafters. Someone shoved a drink into Aldaron’s hands. A scream announced Sera’s presence before Dorian saw her shoving her way through the crowd. She slung an arm around Aldaron’s shoulders, shouting something about ‘big figgin’ heroes’ before dragging him off into the crowd. Dorian didn’t bother trying to follow. Let him have his moment in the spotlight.

Someone handed Dorian a drink and slapped him on the back. Dorian wasn’t at all used to positive attention, and honestly he had no interest in sharing Aldaron’s spotlight. The same people who had glared at him behind his back the day or a week or a month ago now praising him? It was too much.

Aldaron usually hated the attention as well, but this was different. This was not being paraded around like a trophy in front of nobles. These were soldiers and servants, commoners who wanted nothing more than to the joy and glory of victory without any political trappings. As Dorian watched Sera drag him through the crowd Aldaron was smiling, laughing even. He finished a drink and a new one appeared in an instant.

Dorian himself was three drinks in when his lover finally broke free of the revelers and collapsed onto the bench at his side. Judging by the way he swayed and braced himself against the table he was well beyond tipsy at this point. “Enjoying the party?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Aldaron nodded, “Are you?”

He was enjoying watching Aldaron enjoy himself, all of the people who came up to him to offer their thanks and congratulations were still a bit overwhelming. He wasn’t certain he was enjoying that. “But of course,” he said instead.

“Good,” Aldaron grinned and leaned against Dorian’s shoulder in a way that was just casual enough to be blamed on the drink and nothing else.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Dorian blurted out suddenly, surprising even himself. Aldaron sat up again and looked at him curiously. This wasn’t where he’d planned for this to happen. Dorian would definitely be blaming this on the drink later, but there was no backing out now. “I’ve decided to stay with the Inquisition. For now.”

“You will?” Aldaron’s eyes lit up hopefully.

That and the smile that had been on his face all evening were enough reason for Dorian to stay. This man; shy and uncertain, but stronger and braver than anyone Dorian had ever known, and who looked at him like Dorian hung the stars in the sky. It was more than he had ever dared hope for back home. More than he’d ever thought possible. “There’s no you in Tevinter,” he said earnestly, but low enough that they might not be overheard by the surrounding throngs. “What else matters?”

The way that Aldaron’s face lit up told Dorian that he’d made the right decision. Someday maybe he would go back to Tevinter, but only when he could stand to tear himself away from Aldaron’s side. And if that day never came, well maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all.  

“I should let you get back to your adoring public,” Dorian said, nodding to the crowd. Aldaron looked over his shoulder reluctantly. “Have another drink,” he urged, “Enjoy the party, amatus. You’ve earned it.”

 “Andraste’s tits! Just kiss him already!” Sera’s voice screamed out over the general hubbub of the tavern. She was hanging over the stair railing, a mug in one hand and leering at the pair of them.

Dorian felt his face heat up and he turned toward Sera to give her a piece of his mind, but whatever comeback had been on his lips died with a soft touch to his jaw. Aldaron turned Dorian’s face back toward him, a smile on his lips and a mischievous glint in his eye. Before he could protest the elf’s lips were on his. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then another deafening cheer coursed through the tavern.

When Aldaron finally released him the elf was grinning, even if he was blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. Fresh drinks had appeared in front of them as though by magic. Dorian took one of them and downed it in one gulp to stop the hammering of his heart. As soon as he set the cup down again another one appeared in front of him. Someone slapped him on the back so hard he nearly choked on the first swallow.

Aldaron was beaming. He braced a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and rose to his feet, then climbed unsteadily onto the bench. Gesturing with the drink in his other hand he announced to the crowd at large, “Drinks are on me!”

In the resulting cheer Aldaron hopped back down off the bench, kissed Dorian square on the lips one more time, shouted “I’ll be right back,” over the roar of the crowd, and ran off toward where Sera was laughing fit to fall over the railing she was leaning on.

Alright, this… This he could get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Everyone gets really drunk, staggers back to their room, gets naked but passes out before getting to the good part. 
> 
> That's it! It's over! It's like 3x longer than originally planned! Still it was a lot of fun to write, and I'm glad this fic was so well received. Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and comments, and potentially listening to me whine about my feelings. 
> 
> So I have the skeleton of a short sequel that I wanna write for this, so keep an eye out for that, but I also want to write the fic about my other Inquisitor, which would be more AU than this and therefore requires significantly more planning. If anyone wants to beta/let me throw ideas at them hit me up on tumblr.


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